


The Boy Who Existed: Book One

by vamp_stamp



Series: The Boy Who Existed [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Harry Potter is Not the Boy-Who-Lived, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15336132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamp_stamp/pseuds/vamp_stamp
Summary: Harry Potter doesn't grow up in a world where other wizards know his name. At eleven, there is no giant to come and save him from his horrible relatives— there's just Harry. But there's a story there, too. A story about a lonely little boy who refuses to be ordinary, the bad choices we can make when we have no choice, and the people we love, no matter what.





	1. The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic i originally posted in 2014, which i took down from ao3 about six-ish months ago, so i could work on it and fix it up. i'm sure i made somebody mad by just taking all four fics in the series down at once, but i promise it's back to stay. if you were current with the series, i'm sorry, but it'll be a little while until i've gotten back around to posting current chapters, but we'll get there. if you're a new reader, hi! please don't take this fic as a serious social commentary.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter was an unusual little boy. Unusual, first and foremost, because the people who raised him were neither proud of him nor especially inclined to remember he existed. For Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were muggles, and Harry was not. Harry’s mother, Lily Potter, had been Mrs. Dursley’s sister, although Petunia Dursley had been even less inclined to remember that her sister existed. When her nephew had been abruptly placed on her doorstep one morning nearly a decade before, she’d never hated her sister more.

Lord and Lady Longbottom of West Yorkshire, were proud to say that their son was an auror, and a damned good one, at that. They were the sort of family that produced fine, upstanding witches and wizards, and their son was that, if he was anything. For Frank Longbottom, their only son, had officially lost his auror badge a year before, when he had gone off to fight against the blood-supremacists and fanatics of Lord Voldemort— a dark wizard who aimed to dominate all wizard kind.

 

Lord Longbottom had once been a member of the Wizengamot— the wizarding high council— but with a war on, he and his wife had been forced to go into hiding, so he spent his days in his study, directing communications for his son’s comrades-in-arms. Lady Longbottom, the stern-faced mistress of the manor, spent her days examining and fortifying the wards that kept them safe. Aside from their individual pursuits, the Longbottoms held a sort of silent vigil in their bedroom every evening, as they discussed what their son and his wife might have done that day, how big their grandson might have gotten, and when the war would end.

 

It was far from a peaceful existence, and the Longbottoms’ greatest fear was that one day Lord Longbottom’s spindly fingers might land upon a letter from Albus Dumbledore or one of his many soldiers, telling them that Frank was dead. Before they’d gone into hiding, the Longbottoms’ had had many a friend receive the horrible news that their children had been killed by a death eater, or some other gruesome creature. No wizarding family remained untouched by the violence, and many were simply ripped apart, never to recover. That was the fate that the Longbottoms feared above all else, and although neither the master nor the mistress of the manor on the hill considered themselves very religious, they both found themselves reading passages from the muggle bible that Lord Longbottom’s father had kept in the library.

 

When Lord and Lady Longbottom woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, however, Augusta Longbottom swore she could feel something different in the air, although her husband, Morton, assured her that nothing could get through her wards. Still, as they pulled on their robes that morning, several owls flew past their bedroom window. None veered into the window of Lord Longbottom’s study, though, so the Longbottoms made their way to their sitting room to eat their meagre breakfast of eggs and toast.

 

At a quarter past eight o’clock in the morning, Morton Longbottom stood up from his chair, pecked his wife on the cheek, and retired to his study for the day. In the span of eight hours, he usually handled a few hundred correspondences from wizards all over Britain, and he was only one of the five people who handled the Order of the Phoenix's (the order his son belonged to) mail.

 

It was the fifth letter that Morton opened that he began to share his wife’s strange notion that something was different— the sender wrote that they had just seen someone out in the streets of muggle London in full robes, no concern at all. Three letters that followed told him of enormous flocks of owls flying about in broad daylight, as though the senders didn’t care that muggles saw them. Then, at about nine o’clock, he received a letter addressed to himself, and his blood went cold— for there, scrawled in the corner, was Albus Dumbledore’s name.

 

Although the rest of wizarding Britain would soon know Neville Longbottom as the one who had saved them all— The Boy Who Lived— his grandparents felt their hearts break that morning. And in another house, another baby lay all but forgotten, tucked soundly into his crib, while his parents lay dead in the other room. This boy’s name was Harry, and although his parents had also fought and died in the war against Voldemort, little Harry Potter would not know that for a long time to come.

  


—

 

Harry Potter was an unusual little boy. Unusual, first and foremost, because the people who raised him were neither proud of him nor especially inclined to remember he existed. For Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were muggles, and Harry was not. Harry’s mother, Lily Potter, had been Mrs. Dursley’s sister, although Petunia Dursley had been even less inclined to remember that her sister existed. When her nephew had been abruptly placed on her doorstep one morning nearly a decade before, she’d never hated her sister more.

 

So it was hardly surprising that the Dursleys’ tidy home in Little Whinging held only photos of Petunia’s own son, Dudley. Dudley was, perhaps, the most cherished little boy in all of Surrey, and unfortunately for his cousin, also the cruelest. For years, it had been great fun for him to chase Harry up trees, through parks, and on one memorable occasion, onto a roof.

 

That morning, however, Harry slept in relative peace and quiet, dreaming of strange things, like flying motorcycles. Harry often had dreams that made little sense to him, but they were his favorites— his aunt and uncle held with absolutely no ‘nonsense,’ which included anything interesting or even vaguely _fun_ , in Harry’s case. In fact, the Dursleys wanted so little to do with Harry and his ‘abnormality,’ they shut him away in a little closet underneath their stairs. This wasn’t a one-time affair, or a specific punishment— rather, this was where Harry slept, and where he had slept since he had been about four years old.

 

His aunt woke him up that morning the same way she did every morning— by screaming at him from outside the door.

 

“Up! Get up! Now!” Petunia rapped her knuckles against the little cubby door that kept Harry penned in, as though he had not heard her.

 

Indeed, it was impossible for Harry _not_ to hear her, and he startled awake in his threadbare blankets. It was very dingy in the cupboard, but he could just see his aunt’s silhouette fading as she moved into the kitchen. He pulled himself up from his cot, careful not to hit his head on the ceiling, such as it was.

 

He pushed open the door to his cupboard and stepped out into the hallway just as his aunt came back out.

 

“Finally up, then? Go on, go look after the bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn! I want everything perfect for Duddy’s birthday.” She shooed Harry into the kitchen, before she shut his cupboard with a sharp ‘click.’

The Dursley’s kitchen, normally pristine, was a mess of presents for his cousin’s birthday. The dining table was absolutely covered in boxes of all sizes, with some of the bigger presents sprawled out around the legs. Harry was sure his aunt had spent hours arranging and rearranging Dudley’s presents until they looked perfect. Harry tried not to stare, although he could already tell his uncle had gotten Dudley a new computer, a television for his second bedroom, a racing bike and a host of other things Harry would never dream of being able to use. The only things Harry was encouraged to use were the stove and gardening equipment. And, of course, to use his body as Dudley Dursley’s personal punching bag— encouraged, because Dudley very rarely caught Harry. He certainly didn’t look it, but Harry was very fast when he wanted to be.

 

Perhaps it had something to with his cupboard, or perhaps it had to do with how little his aunt and uncle fed him, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. Combined with his cousin’s enormous hand-me-down’s, and Harry looked as though he were about eight or nine years old, although he was nearly eleven. He was a very messy-looking boy, with his baggy clothes, broken glasses that’d been taped back together,  and a mop of black hair that would not be tamed.

 

Harry went over to the stove after he’d finished looking at Dudley’s presents, and was just flipping over the bacon when his uncle came into the kitchen.

 

“Comb your hair!” Vernon barked at him.

 

Harry’s hair had caused more contention than anyone else in history, he often thought. Both his aunt and the cheapest hairdresser they could find had tried to cut it into something presentable, but Harry’s hair was wild— as soon as it was cut, it grew right back, just as out-of-control as before.

 

Harry was making the Dursleys’ their eggs by the time that Dudley came into the kitchen, his mother right behind him. While Aunt Petunia fussed over Dudley, Harry put the eggs and bacon out onto the plates, saving two pieces for himself. Normally, he only got one, but Aunt Petunia had accidentally let two of them stick together, and Harry certainly wasn’t going to let her know her mistake.  

 

Harry slid the plates of eggs and bacon into the spots where there weren’t as many presents, while Dudley stared at them in deep concentration. He was counting his presents, as he did every year, and once he’d finished, he looked very upset.

 

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking at Uncle Vernon accusingly. “That’s two less than last year.”

 

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see?” Aunt Petunia said. “It’s right under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

 

“All right, thirty-seven then,” Dudley said, although Harry could see he was going very red in the face. Afraid of one of Dudley’s spectacular tantrums, Harry backed up so that he was out of hitting distance.

 

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that all right?”

 

Dudley thought about that for a moment, trying to do the maths. Dudley was _very_ bad at maths, and Harry thought his brain might explode from the strain of adding thirty-seven and two. “So I’ll have thirty… thirty…”

 

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” Aunt Petunia told him.

 

“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest present. “All right, then.”

 

Harry edged back towards the table, so no one would notice he’d gone, but Uncle Vernon was too busy ruffling Dudley’s hair.

 

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He chuckled.

 

As Dudley began to open his first present, the kitchen phone started to ring. Aunt Petunia rushed to answer it, and took up her usual perch by the window. Harry, however, got to stand there and watch as Dudley unwrapped the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was just starting in on a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia hung up the phone.

 

“Vernon, the house-sitter will be here soon.” Aunt Petunia said, as she came back over to the kitchen table.

 

“Right. Come over here, boy!” Vernon stood up from his chair, and crossed to the kitchen door. Harry scrambled after him.

 

The house-sitter, a university student named Maggie, came every year on Dudley’s birthday, mostly to ensure that Harry wouldn’t destroy the Dursley’s house. For one day, Harry was allowed into Dudley’s spare bedroom, under the strict condition that he not say or do anything that might let Maggie know he didn’t, in fact, have agoraphobia. That had been the lie his aunt and uncle had told her, that Harry had a terrible fear of leaving the house, and therefore could not be brought along on Dudley’s birthday excursions. Maggie, Harry knew, had very little interest in babysitting, and mostly she watched telly on the Dursleys’ enormous television— she’d never once questioned why she wasn’t supposed to watch over Harry.

 

So Harry followed Uncle Vernon up the stairs to Dudley’s second bedroom and quickly went to use the loo before Uncle Vernon changed his mind. He washed his hands and then drank some tap water from the sink before he was ushered into Dudley’s spare bedroom and locked inside.

 

Frankly, this arrangement suited Harry quite nicely— although Dudley’s second bedroom was filled with things he didn’t want, it also had a real bed, and a whole bookshelf crammed full. If there was one thing Dudley didn’t like, it was reading, which meant that any books he might have received as presents from well-meaning teachers, or his mother’s friends, ended up abandoned in the second bedroom.

 

Harry, however, loved to read. He wasn’t allowed books very often, since the Dursleys didn’t bother spending money on him, and he spent most of his time doing chores, anyway— but when he had the time and a good book, Harry finally felt as though he could leave the Dursleys behind.

 

So Harry waited patiently for the Polkisses (Dudley’s best friend and his parents,) to get there, followed by Maggie, the house sitter, and then, finally, for the Dursleys to get into Uncle Vernon’s shiny new car and leave. Once he could no longer hear the rumble of the engine, Harry went over to the bookshelf and looked through all of the titles. Some of them were from Dudley was younger, and so they were mostly picture books, but on the bottom shelf, there was a copy of David Copperfield, which Harry had heard his teachers say was one of the best books by Charles Dickens, so he pulled that out, and went to stretch out on the bed.

 

For the next few hours, Harry lost himself in someone else’s bad lot in life— the horrible Murdstones, and then Mr. Creakle— although he wasn’t sure what to make of all the cousins who were secretly in love with each other. He has to assume that was something they just _did_ in the eighteen-hundreds, although it was certainly strange.

 

By the time that Uncle Vernon came to unlock the door, Harry had devoured all six-hundred odd pages and had also decided that he needed to read all the rest of Dickens’ books.

 

Harry’s school library wasn’t lending books, that close to the end of the school year, so he just played the events of David Copperfield out in his mind, over and over again. He thought about escaping to Australia every time Dudley and his friends decided to play Harry Hunting— their favorite game, which involved the five of them trying to find him and beat him senseless.

 

When school ended, Harry was certainly happy. Although Aunt Petunia would have him out in the garden every day by July, for June he could hide out in the public library, burying his nose in a new book every day. It was better than anything Harry had ever been allowed to have, and some days he woke up and was sure the Dursleys would somehow find out he was having fun, and lock him in his cupboard for the rest of forever— especially since they would be deprived of Dudley’s _incredible_ company at the end of the summer.

 

Dudley, of course, had been accepted to Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings, along with most of his friends. It was the sort of school where eleven-year-olds with vicious tempers and bad attitudes were given walking sticks to smack each other with, which of course suited Dudley nicely. Harry, on the other hand, was going to secondary school at the local public school, Stonewall High, which meant that he would still be “at home” to hear all about how he was so much worse than Dudley.

 

Still, it _might_ mean that Harry would finally have friends. Everyone had steered clear of him, for no one wanted to end up on Dudley’s bad side. Being on Dudley’s bad side meant you got your lunch stolen by Dennis and Malcolm, or Piers would rip up your homework, or Gordon would trip you down the stairs— no one had ever thought Harry was worth that much trouble. But Dudley and his gang would be gone the whole year, so all Harry had to do was convince people he was all right. That couldn’t be too hard— after all, if _Dudley_ could make friends, so could he.

 

One day in the beginning of July, right before the gardening season began in earnest, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to go and get his new Smeltings uniform. Harry was left at home, although Maggie couldn’t make it. Instead, he was locked in his cupboard the whole day, under pain of death if something unusual should happen while they were away.

 

That evening, Dudley came home with his new prize possession— his Smeltings stick. He paraded around the living room for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, while Harry was forced to watch. His uniform consisted of maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and a boater— a sort of straw hat with an ugly ribbon just above the brim.

 

Uncle Vernon puffed up with pride, and said hoarsely that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and latched herself onto Dudley, who looked fiercely uncomfortable, but unable to get out of the death-grip his mother held him in. Harry had to keep looking at the ceiling, so he wouldn’t burst out laughing.

 

It wasn’t _quite_ as funny when Harry went into the kitchen the next morning and nearly fell over, it smelled so badly of cabbage and chemicals. It was coming from a bucket full of what looked like old rags, in a water so dirty it was nearly black.

 

“What’s this?” Harry dared to ask Aunt Petunia, who had just put on that morning’s breakfast.

 

“Your new school uniform,” she said, her lip curling as though Harry were the one causing the horrible smell.

 

Harry looked into the sink at the horrible things in the water. “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet,” he said, finally.

 

Aunt Petunia’s lip curled even higher. “Don’t be stupid,” She snapped. “I’m dying some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.”

 

Harry doubted that very much— in fact, he was pretty sure any hope he had of making friends had just died along with his nose.

 

Aunt Petunia shoved Harry in front of the stove, and he quickly got to work making sure the sausages didn’t burn. She came back to make the toast, and she waved him away with one hand when he got in her way.

 

“Go,” she said, as though Harry were a particularly annoying insect that wouldn’t leave.

 

He went over and sat down at the kitchen table as Dudley and Uncle Vernon came into the kitchen. Dudley gave him a good ‘whap’ on the shoulder with his Smeltings stick, and Uncle Vernon ignored him in favor of opening his newspaper.

 

They heard the ‘click’ of the mail slot shortly after, and Uncle Vernon looked up from his paper.

 

“Go and get the mail, Dudley,” he said.

 

“Make Harry get it,” Dudley replied.

 

“Get the mail, Harry.” Uncle Vernon said.

 

“Make Dudley get it,” Harry said, suddenly braver than usual. Dudley gave him a firm rap on the head with his walking stick, and Harry hurried out of the room to go and get the mail.

 

“Don’t take no for an answer, that’s my boy…” Harry heard Uncle Vernon say as he left the kitchen.

 

There were three pieces of mail that morning— a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge, who hated Harry with a passion, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for _Harry._

 

He felt as though he might fall over— no one, _ever_ , in his whole life, had written a letter to Harry. He had no friends or pen pals, no other relatives that he knew of, and yet, there it was.

 

‘Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.’

 

The envelope was made of thick, fancy paper, with emerald-green ink and a swirly sort of handwriting that reminded Harry of his teachers’ cursive. There was no stamp, but when he turned over the letter, there was a real wax seal, as though he’d just been sent a letter straight from the eighteen-hundreds. His heart was practically beating out of his chest, as all sorts of scenarios straight out of Dickens filled his head— maybe _he_ had a long lost great aunt, who was going to take him away from the Dursleys, or a grandfather on his father’s side who was a baron! No matter what, Harry knew he couldn’t let the Dursley’s see this letter, even if— and his stomach hurt just thinking about it— it was just some strangely fancy invitation to a book club or something.

 

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen.

 

Harry startled, and rushed to shove the letter into the gap underneath his cupboard door.

 

“What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” Uncle Vernon shouted again, chuckling loudly at his own joke.

 

Harry went back into the kitchen and handed over the other two pieces of mail before he sat back down. He tucked his hands under the table so that Dudley wouldn’t notice they were shaking— he felt as though he might be sick, he was so nervous.

 

Uncle Vernon paid him no notice and ripped open the bill. He skimmed over it, snorted in disgust, and then flipped over the postcard.

 

“Oh, Marge is ill,” He informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk…”

 

Aunt Petunia came over with three plates of grilled tomatoes, toast and sausages, which she set down on the table. She glared at Harry, as though Harry weren’t smart enough to know that one of them _wasn’t_ for him. He stood up from the table, and went over to the toaster, where there was one unbuttered piece of toast left for him.

 

“We’ll have to write back,” said Aunt Petunia, from over Uncle Vernon’s shoulder. “Perhaps a get-well card,” she mused.

 

“We’ll send her a picture of Dudley,” Uncle Vernon said. “Make her feel right as rain, her favorite nephew there with her.”

 

Harry thought that would make him sicker than anything, to have a picture of Dudley staring at him, but he knew better than to say that.

Aunt Petunia sat down to eat breakfast, and realizing that Harry was standing there, toast finished, she shooed him off to his room with an impatient hand gesture. Harry tried not to look as relieved as he was.

 

He opened the door to his cupboard, and carefully picked up the letter from the floor, before he closed the door behind him, and settled down onto his cot. He had a torch on the floor that he’d taken from Dudley’s second bedroom on his last birthday— he tried not to use it, to save the batteries, but this was a special emergency. He flicked it on, and slid his finger under the flap of the letter before he carefully pulled the seal away— Harry didn’t want to break the seal, just in case he might need it sometime— and pulled out the letter inside.

 

The letter was printed on the same thick paper, that on closer inspection, was closer to yellow than white. But the letter itself was what really grabbed Harry’s attention.

 

It read:

 

‘HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

 

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. Yours sincerely,

 

Minerva McGonagall,

 

Deputy Headmistress’

 

He felt as though someone must be playing a prank on him, except no one would ever go to that much trouble to prank _Harry_.

 

He decided that he just had to try and respond to the letter, so he leaned over the edge of his cot, and dug around underneath until he found a pen, and an old floppy journal he’d used for school when he was younger. He pulled a piece of paper out of the journal, careful not to rip it, just in case the Dursleys would be able to hear it. He knew Aunt Petunia would expect him to weed her flower gardens that morning, so he wrapped the letter and the blank piece of paper around the pen and slipped the two into the hem of his pants. Dudley's oversized shirt covered the shape of them, and Aunt Petunia didn’t seem to notice them at all when she came and got him out of his cupboard.

 

“Here,” she said, as she shoved a trowel and a little rake into his hands. “Don’t you dare come inside until all the weeds are gone.”

 

Harry took both of them and got to work on his aunt’s daisies. Throughout the afternoon, as Aunt Petunia turned from the front window to spy on the neighbors, or to fuss over Dudley and his friends, Harry quickly wrote a sentence or two on the piece of paper.

 

He wrote:

 

‘Dear Professor McGonagall,

 

Thank you very much for your letter. I would be very happy to come to your school, only I don’t know how to get there. I also don’t know how I would buy a cauldron, or robes, or an owl. Could you please tell me how to do these things? I’m sorry if it’s a bother, as I’m sure you’re very busy.

 

Thank you,

Harry Potter.’

 

They’d just learned how to format letters in school a few months before, so Harry was sure he’d done that right, but he _wasn’t_ sure he was allowed to write back to the Deputy Headmistress of a school. Then, there was the question of how he would get the letter to her. Harry didn’t think he could just put a letter to a wizarding school in the mailbox.

 

He looked up to check that his aunt was still looking out the side window, and that’s when he saw it— a big barn owl, perched right on top of the Dursley’s weathervane. When he raised a hand to his eyes so he could block out the sun to look at it, the owl let out its’ wings and flew down to where Harry was kneeling in the grass.

 

He jumped, but the bird paid him no mind— it was looking at the letter in his hand with a sort of determination. Only owls couldn’t be _determined_ — they were owls. When he didn’t do anything, though, the owl leaned forward and pecked him on the hand. It was so unexpected, Harry dropped the letter— and the owl picked it up with its beak, and flew off.

 

Harry sat there, flabbergasted until he realized that that must be why they could bring owls to school— because they were magical mail carriers.  

 

Once he’d recovered from the shock of being pecked by an owl, Harry started to worry about what the Professor would say. He only hoped that his letter hadn't sounded too dense and that she would really send him a letter back, so he could go to _wizard_ school. That was a better adventure than anything in a Dickens’ book.

 

The next morning, Harry checked the mail as soon as it came, and he found a letter there, just like the first, addressed to him in the same green ink. It went the way of the first letter— shoved under Harry’s door to protect it from whatever Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon might do to it.

  


His aunt noticed him bending under the door, and snapped, "What are are you doing there?"

 

"There was a spider." Harry said. He sounded panicked. At least, he thought he'd sounded panicked.

 

Aunt Petunia didn't seem to notice anything strange about it, though, so he hurried up and began fixing breakfast.

 

Afterward, Harry stood by the sink for what felt like forever, trying not to make it seem like he was doing something his aunt and uncle would hate.

 

As soon as he could go without his aunt being suspicious, he went back to his cupboard and tried not to rip the envelope.

 

‘Dear Mr. Potter,

 

Although your relatives should know where to go, your school supplies may be purchased from numerous shops in Diagon Alley, located in London. You may reach Diagon Alley via The Leaky Cauldron Pub of Charing Cross Road. The bartender, Tom, will assist you in gaining access to the Alley.

 

You may access the train to Hogwarts from Platform 9 and 3/4, London Station.

 

Best of luck,

 

Minerva McGonagall.’

 

Harry’s hands were shaking terribly— he really was going to be leaving the Dursleys.


	2. A Vanishing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Leaky Cauldron, the pub he was looking for, was exactly what Harry thought a wizard pub ought to look like. The whole thing looked as though it were several hundred years old, and not a one of the passersby seemed to realize it was there.
> 
> Harry ducked inside when he was sure no one was looking, and stopped dead in his tracks. The inside of The Leaky Cauldron was smokey and packed to the rafters with people— Harry thought it was absolutely magical .

The letter Professor McGonagall sent also listed the street address, in London, of the Leaky Cauldron pub. Clearly, she expected Harry’s “family” to take him there.

 

Harry knew that his aunt and uncle would never let him see the light of day again if they knew what he was doing— ever since he was little, the Dursleys had been trying to tamp down anything ‘abnormal’ about Harry, and now he wondered if _this_ was why. Maybe they’d known, somehow, that this was coming. Maybe, Harry thought, all the strange things he’d done when he was younger— flying up onto the roof, or his hair all growing back in a single night— that was _magic_. It made sense, why Uncle Vernon got red in the face whenever Harry mentioned strange dreams, or books about dragons, or anything else that wasn’t supposed to happen. Harry was a wizard, and the Dursleys most certainly were not.

 

So he didn’t even feel bad that night when he slid a folded up piece of paper into the space where the deadbolt would close on his cupboard door, and he slipped out the next morning, two hours before his aunt and uncle would wake up.

 

Harry took a twenty-pound note from his aunt’s purse, and let himself out the back door, all the while, the idea of getting caught sat like a lead ball in his stomach. But Harry knew there was no other way he would get to London, and the only way he would ever be able to run away from the Dursleys. He’d dreamed about it all his life, but as he walked down the sidewalk that morning, he felt as though he was still dreaming.  

 

The oversized pockets of Dudley’s old trousers held the twenty-pound note, the letter from Professor McGonagall, and Harry’s nervous, shaky hands. He walked to the bus stop a few blocks away, and then sat there in the early morning gloom, trying to look as though he belonged there.

 

Harry got change for the twenty and a bus ticket to London from the unsmiling old man who drove the bus. He sat in the very back of the bus, next to an old lady who smiled at him and struck up a conversation about the scarf she was knitting. Harry didn't know anything about knitting, but Mrs. Finn was very nice, and for a few minutes, he could almost pretend she was his grandmother.

 

And he was very glad he talked to her when he found out she lived in London— he asked her if she knew how to get to Charing Cross Road, and she wrote the directions on a little piece of paper she found in her purse.

 

“Would you like me to come with you, dear?” She asked.

 

“No, thank you.” He told her. “My mum and dad are coming to pick me up.”

 

She still looked worried, but she only told him, “If you’re sure.”

 

He was, and when he got off the bus, Harry felt as though he were about to become a new person. He’d never been to London before, and all his fear had been replaced with a nervous energy that he could feel buzzing away at the back of his skull.

 

The Leaky Cauldron, the pub he was looking for, was exactly what Harry thought a wizard pub ought to look like. The whole thing looked as though it were several hundred years old, and not a one of the passersby seemed to realize it was there.

 

Harry ducked inside when he was sure no one was looking, and stopped dead in his tracks. The inside of The Leaky Cauldron was smokey and packed to the rafters with people— Harry thought it was absolutely _magical_. No one there was like his aunt and uncle, or anyone else he’d ever seen— the people wore a variety of colourful robes, long cloaks, and even some things like turbans.

 

Harry looked down at himself, suddenly self-conscious. In Dudley’s old trousers, and his floppy trainers that were just about falling apart, Harry looked like an intruder. His heart plummeted. What if this had all been a mistake, and Harry really wasn’t a wizard at all?

 

Before he could turn around and leave, however, the man at the bar waved him over.

 

“Are you Tom?” Harry asked, shouting a bit so he could be heard over the din.

 

“Aye,” the man behind the bar said. “You a muggleborn, lad?”

 

“Muggleborn?” Harry parroted, feeling particularly stupid.

 

“Your parents, can they do magic?” Tom asked him, patient and smiling.

 

“...I don't know.” Harry said. It would make sense if they had been, but the Dursleys had never told Harry anything about his parents, except that they’d died in a car crash when Harry was a baby. He was pretty sure witches and wizards didn’t die in car crashes.

 

“Well, let's start with names.” Tom put down the glass he'd been polishing.

 

“My name's Harry.. Harry Potter.” He said.

 

“Ah, James' and Lily's son! You’re no muggleborn, lad. Your parents were some o’ the bravest people I ever knew. Terrible shame, what happened.” Tom shook his head. “You all alone?” He asked.

 

“Yes, sir.” Harry said.

 

“Tell you what,” Tom said, setting down the towel he’d been wiping the glass with. “Give me a minute, and I’ll take you to Gringotts me’self.” He untied his apron, folded it on top of the towel, and waved over a girl who looked only a few years older than Harry.

 

“Watch the bar, will ye’?” Tom asked her, and then pushed off into the throng without waiting for an answer.

 

Tom led him through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trashcan and a few weeds.

 

“Here we are, lad.” Tom took out a long, thin piece of wood, which Harry realized was his wand. Tom tapped the brick wall in front of them three times, and then stepped back, his arm extended, so that Harry was pushed backwards as well.

 

Tom gave him a gentle push, and Harry stumbled into a street straight from his wildest dreams— right in front of them was a shop that only sold cauldrons, and down the street was a real apothecary, with signs advertising sales on dragon liver and wolfsbane. Harry wished he had four more pairs of eyes, so he could take everything in— as it was, he just barely caught glimpses of an owlery, with a sign saying they’d just gotten more snowy owls in stock, and a broom shop, with a crowd of boys his own age pressed against the windows, whispering about the broom on display.

 

Harry was shocked and delighted by everything he saw, but Tom was totally unfazed— in fact, he seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, as he ushered Harry down the way. They stopped in front of a gigantic building of snowy white marble. It towered over everything else, and the enormous burnished bronze doors looked as though they could easily fit ten people across. At the door was a creature in a uniform of scarlet and gold, who bowed and let them inside.

 

“Was that-?” Harry started to ask.

 

“A goblin.” Tom told him, very quietly.

 

Inside the building, they face a second set of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

 

‘ _Enter stranger, but take heed,_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there.’_

 

Two goblins bowed them inside this time, and then they were inside the bank itself. It was like no bank Harry had ever seen— on each side were counters manned by hundreds of goblins, some writing in ledgers larger than Harry’s head, while others weighed piles of gold and silver on ornate bronze scales, or examined gemstones the size of their fists with jewelers spectacles. Behind the high counters were doors leading further into the bank, where still more goblins escorted people in and out. At the very front of the hall was the main counter, where a surly looking goblin acted as teller. That was where Tom steered him, and they came to a halt under the goblin’s scrutiny.

 

"I've a Mr. Potter here, wishes to enter his vault. 'Key should be on record." Tom told the goblin.

 

The goblin shifted his half-moon spectacles down the bridge of his nose and looked down at the enormous ledger perched in front of him. When he seemingly found what he was looking for, he crooked one long, pointy finger at someone behind him. "One moment."

 

A younger looking goblin came over with an enormous wooden box, covered in chains, which he hefted above his head. The clerk took a large bronze key from the counter in front of him, and unlocked the box, before he retrieved a scroll from inside of it. The scroll unrolled itself, and the clerk adjusted his glasses again, before he ran a finger down the paper, looking for something. When his finger stopped, he muttered something under his breath, and a key floated out of the box, which the clerk took from the air, and handed down to Harry.

 

“Everything appears to be in order,” the clerk told them. “I will have someone take you down to your vault. Griphook!”

 

Griphook came out from one of the doors along the back wall, and he took the key from Harry’s hand, before ushering them through the same door. Inside, Harry was surprised to see, was a very narrow stone passageway, with metal tracks along the floor. Once Griphook closed the door, he whistled, and what looked like a mining cart rolled to a stop in front of them. Tom steered Harry into the cart, and Griphook climbed in after them. They hurtled through a maze of twisting passages, around and around, left, right, left, right, right, middle fork, until trying to keep track of all the twists and turns started to make Harry’s head hurt. It was startlingly cold, and it made his eyes water to watch everything, but he didn’t dare close them.

 

They passed an underground lake, with stalagmites and stalactites lining the ceiling and floors. Harry shivered— he hoped that they would reach where they were going soon, because he was getting very cold.

 

They did come to a stop soon after that, and they climbed out of the cart one at a time. Griphook unlocked one of the vault doors, and waved one long hand to dissipate the green smoke that came billowing out. Beyond it, Harry could see quite a lot of glinting and glimmering, and then, it cleared. Inside the vault were small _mountains_ of gold, silver and copper, along with furniture and paintings that looked like they belonged in a museum.

 

"This is all mine?" Harry asked. He was half expecting someone to say it was all a joke, that he wasn't really a wizard, and that this money was someone else's.

 

Tom smiled. "All yours, lad. 'Father was a rich man, he was."

 

Harry was astonished— he’d never even had pocket change, and yet, all this time, he’d been rich as a king. The Dursleys would be green with envy if they knew, and that in itself was a victory Harry had been waiting for his whole life.

 

Griphook handed Harry a small cloth bag with a drawstring, and Harry ran his fingers over the coins as he put them inside. Tom explained to him which coins were which as he did it, and by the end Harry knew that the small bronze coins were knuts, the silver ones were sickles, and the larger gold coins were galleons, the most valuable.

 

Harry spent the cart ride back up in shock. He’d daydreamed about having wealthy grandparents or a great aunt who’d take him away and spoil him, but now he had money and _magic_. Harry didn’t need the Dursleys at all, and he felt as though he might burst, he was so happy.

 

They left Gringotts the way they came, and Tom steered him into a quiet corner across the way.

 

“If y’ need somewhere to stay the night, come on back to the Cauldron, and I’ll get y’ set up.” Tom told him.

 

“I will, thank you!” Harry said, more excited than he could ever remember being.

 

Once Tom left, he pulled his letter out of his pocket, and flipped to the second page, where his school supplies were listed.

 

‘UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

  1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
  2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
  3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
  4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags



 

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk

 _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot

 _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling

 _A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore

 _Magical Draughts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander

 _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble

 

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

 

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS’

 

The first thing on the list was his school uniform, and Harry desperately wanted to get out of Dudley’s old clothes, so he went to the robe shop first.

 

The sign above the door read ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.’ Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked, before Harry could say anything at all. “Got the lot here— another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

 

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

 

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

 

“Yes,” Harry replied. He was very bad at talking to people his own age, or really anyone at all, and he was a little afraid of embarrassing himself.

 

The boy looked him up and down, and he must’ve noticed the collar of Dudley’s old shirt peeking through the robes, because he looked at him the way someone might look at a slug. "Muggleborn?"

 

Muggles seemed to just be people who couldn’t do magic-- and yet this boy looked like Harry was the dirt beneath his shoes. He was furious, before he thought of Dudley coming here. He would ruin it and laugh. Harry had never met any muggle (a word that sounded strange, even in his own head,) that wasn’t perfectly happy with their lot in life. Why should they get to experience all of _this_ as well?

“No,” Harry said. “My parents were wizards.”

 

“Were?” The boy asked.

 

“They died,” Harry said. “I was raised by muggles.”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” Although he didn’t look like someone who shuffled awkwardly, Harry could see he wanted to. "I'm Draco, by the way. Draco Malfoy."

 

“Harry Potter.” He said.

 

“Potter, that’s a _pureblood_ name.” Malfoy gave Harry a strange look that he had no hope of understanding.

 

“Do you play Quidditch at all?” Malfoy asked.

 

“No, sorry.” Harry said.

 

“ _I_ do-- I’m very good, in fact. Father says it’d be a crime if I’m not picked for my House team. You really ought to learn, you know.”

 

Madam Malkin tapped Harry on the shoulder. “That’s you done, my dear.” She said.

 

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I’m sure.” Malfoy said.

 

“Mhmm.” Harry hummed, feeling very awkward. He trailed after Madam Malkin, and handed over the money she asked him for.

 

After meeting Draco Malfoy, Harry felt as though he needed to bury himself in books about wizards. He didn’t know _anything_ , and he wanted to, desperately, so he hurried over to the bookstore he could see just peeking around the corner.

 

Flourish and Blotts, as it was called, had every book Harry could have ever wanted. He had to get his school books, but aside from that, he wanted to buy books on _everything_.

 

There were books for muggleborns that told you all about wizarding games and sports and all sorts of things. Harry bought one of those, and buried it under three big fiction books, just in case. He really didn’t want anyone to think he was a muggleborn, especially after the way Malfoy had acted-- not that he could blame him.

 

They had books with enormous, extendable family trees for the important wizard families, and Harry was shocked to see that _his_ family tree was in one of them. That, he realized, as he looked at them, was what Malfoy had meant by ‘pureblood--’ there were people who were all wizard, people who came from muggles, and people who were half and half. That was what Harry was-- a half-blood. But his dad had been from a family of all wizards all the way back to the middle ages, and Harry couldn’t believe that he’d finally know something about his family. He added a genealogy book to his pile.

 

Harry had so many books, by the time he made his way to the counter, that the cashier gave him a bag with a ‘feather-weight’ charm on it.

 

“Be careful with that,” She warned him. “You can still hurt someone with that many books!”

 

“Thank you,” Harry said, smiling.

 

After Flourish and Blotts, Harry stopped and bought himself quite a lot of parchment, and a few different bottles of ink. He’d never been allowed to do well at school, really, since he hadn’t been allowed to out-shine Dudley, so he wanted to be really well prepared now that he could be. He was going to do really well at Hogwarts, he just _knew_ it, if only he could spend the next two months studying on how to be a wizard.

 

Harry took himself to the Apothecary next, which was _fascinating_. They had unicorn horns and beetles eyes, along with the dragon liver he’d seen on their sign. It smelt horrible inside, even worse than the dye Aunt Petunia had used to dye Dudley’s old clothes, but there were dried herbs everywhere, along with barrels full of slimy things, claws, horns, fangs, things out of fantasy books, except they were real, and Harry could just go and buy them.

 

He bought a kit of basic potions ingredients, and then wandered over to the cauldron shop to buy himself a pewter cauldron. The shopkeeper told him to invest in a better-than-average set of scales, so Harry took his advice-- he got a very nice one, and added to the group of bags he was carrying around Diagon Alley.

 

He stuck his collapsible telescope into the bag with all his books, and considered stopping for the day, before he realized that the only thing left on his list was the thing that was really going to make Harry a wizard-- his wand.

 


	3. The War In A Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the center of the crowd, Harry could just see the tip of what he thought might have been a bird, perched upon someone’s head. When he tilted his head a little, he could see that the bird was on someone’s head, but it was a stuffed bird, attached to a hat, which perched on the head of an old woman, who was brandishing an enormous purse as a sort of weapon, driving back the crowd of people from a chubby boy who looked to be about Harry’s age. He couldn’t possibly imagine what it was about this boy that had drawn so much attention from everyone around him, but it must have been him they were interested in— no one so much as looked at the old woman, until her purse came dangerously close to smacking them in the arm, or the face.

CHAPTER THREE: THE WAR IN A BOOK

 

T here was only one place in Diagon Alley that sold wands, as far as Harry could tell. It was the very last shop on the main row, a shabby place with peeling paint and dusty window panes. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the window. 

 

The inside of Ollivander's wand shop was even shabbier than the front—the bell over the front door had a strange sound, as though someone had bent it out of tune, and it rang in Harry’s ears when he stepped into the tiny room inside. The only piece of furniture in the shop was a spindly chair that looked a bit rusty around the edges— aside from that, the shop’s only distinguishing feature was the thousands of narrow boxes that lined the shelves along the walls. There was only one light, a chandelier that held two candles at a parallel with each other. When Harry looked up at them, he could see the streams of dust in the air— the amount of it, Harry thought, would have sent Aunt Petunia into a fit.

 

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped.

 

An old man had come through from the back of the shop, and he stood there staring at Harry, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the dim of the shop.

 

“Hello,” Harry said, trying to work out how a fragile old man could move that quietly.

 

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. 

 

“You have your mother’s eyes,” the old man explained. “It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

 

Harry had no idea what to say— he knew nothing about his mother. 

 

“Your father, on the other hand,” the old man, who Harry now assumed was Ollivander, continued, “favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it— it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

 

Mr. Ollivander stared off into space for a moment, and his big eyes went lost and unfocused. Then, as quick as it came over him, the look in his eyes left, and Ollivander pulled a long tape measure out of his pocket. 

 

“Which is your wand arm?” He asked Harry.

 

“I’m— ah, I’m right-handed,” Harry said, suddenly nervous. 

 

“Hold out your arm.” Harry set down his shopping bags and held out his right arm. “That’s it,” said Ollivander.

 

He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and around his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

 

Harry’s head was spinning with questions, but Ollivander was already gone, flitting about the stacks of boxes like some strange, oversized moth. The tape measure was still wrapping itself around Harry’s arms and legs, suspended by magic.

 

“That will do,” said Ollivander, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor like a puppet with its’ strings cut. “Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy.” 

 

Ollivander held out the wand with an open palm, and Harry stared at it— it was hard to imagine that the dark piece of wood, which was barely thicker than a stick off the ground, could do anything, much less help Harry make magic. Ollivander gave him an expectant look, and Harry plucked it from his palm with three fingers. He waved it gently, a bit afraid he would break it if he held it too firmly— only it didn’t do anything at all. Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand at once and placed it back in its’ box.

 

“Perhaps this one,” he said. “Maple and phoenix feather. Quite whippy. Try—”

 

Harry took the wand and held it properly in the palm of his hand. Maybe there was a certain hand position for wands that Harry just didn’t know— maybe that was why the first wand hadn’t worked. With that in mind, Harry gave the second wand a wave— but that one didn’t work either. 

 

“Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches. Nice and flexible.” Ollivander pulled the maple wand out of Harry’s hand and replaced it with another one.

 

Harry felt a sudden, strange warmth as the wand slid into his palm— he gave it a wave, and a stream of golden sparks shot out from the end, like tiny fireworks. His stomach suddenly felt fuzzy— it was all real, all of it. Harry really was a wizard. He hadn’t quite believed it until then, he realized. He’d seen and heard the magic around him, he had a book full of his own relatives, all witches and wizards, but that hadn’t been quite enough to cement it all. Harry was a wizard, a wizard from a very old family, who had a bank vault full of real gold, and he had never fit in because he hadn’t belonged in Little Whinging— he belonged  _ here. _

 

“Oh, very good,” said Ollivander, snapping Harry out of his own thoughts.

 

With shaking, giddy hands, Harry paid seven galleons for his new wand. Mr. Ollivander bowed him from his shop, and Harry stepped back onto Diagon Alley— he was momentarily blinded by the late afternoon sun, which was startlingly bright after the dingy interior of Ollivander’s. When Harry was blinking away the last of the dark spots from his vision, he set off down the alleyway, back to where he’d first come through. He dodged through the crowd, careful not to topple over any of the merchandise that’d been set up in front of the shops, or to crash into the other witches and wizards there. When Harry reached the brick wall, he followed a group of middle-aged witches through the archway, back into the Leaky Cauldron.

 

It was less crowded inside than it had been that morning, and Harry was able to make his way to the bar without too much trouble. Tom was still there, polishing the counter and occasionally refilling glasses that floated their way to him. When he looked up and saw Harry, he broke into a mostly toothless smile. Harry gave him a little wave back, and Tom came over to where Harry was standing.

 

“Find your way alright, lad?” He asked.

 

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, who held up his shopping bags as proof of how well he’d gotten along.

 

“Good, good! You here to take me up on that offer for a room?” Tom smiled again, and Harry determinedly didn’t stare at his empty gums.

 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said again.

 

“Now, now, none of that, lad. Tom’s m’ God-given name, and I’m no one so important to be called sir. You come upstairs with me, and ol’ Tom’ll set you up in a good room over the alley.” He swung open the door to the bar and stepped outside of it.

 

“Alright, Tom,” Harry said after a beat. He felt rather strange calling a man old enough to be his grandfather by his first name, but he liked Tom, and he’d been so nice to him that morning, Harry would have hated to upset him.

 

The barkeeper ruffled Harry’s hair and took the biggest of Harry’s shopping bags, the one from the bookshop. 

 

“Never thought to see the day a Potter went to Ravenclaw,”  Tom said, looking into the bag.

 

Harry didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t think it was a  _ bad _ thing, so he kept his mouth shut, and followed Tom across the bar and up the stairs to the second floor. The Leaky Cauldron was deceivingly large, and Harry realized with a start that the stairs went up at least another two floors. He thought about all the interesting people he’d seen in the bar that morning and thought that quite a few of them were probably staying in the rooms above. 

 

They were nice enough rooms, he thought, when Tom showed him his— not as clean as one of the Dursleys’ bedrooms, but leagues above Harry’s cupboard. It was a threadbare bedroom, with plain wooden floors and walls with dated wallpaper. Upon closer inspection, Harry found that the roses in the wallpaper twisted and turned when he looked at one of them too long— it hurt his eyes to watch. There was a good-sized poster bed in the center of the room, with curtains that looked as though age, not design, had made them beige. There was a loo attached, with a chipped sink and an old claw-foot tub with metal taps. Harry  _ loved _ it. 

 

“There’ll be dinner at five,” Tom told him as he left. “Ought to come down— got a professor in the house this evenin’.”

 

Harry thought about that as he took out his new books, He set the school books in a pile on the bedside table, and spread out the rest of them across the bedspread —  there were so many, he had to have  _ rows _ to fit them all. Long gone were the days of Harry sneaking unwanted books from Dudley’s dusty bookshelf — these books were all his, and he plopped himself right at the head of the bed before he dug into the first book in front of him. 

 

The first book he read was about wizarding genealogy, a very fancy word for people’s family history. Although Harry had bought it because it had his father’s family tree, it also had an enormous number of other families — Avery, Nott, Greengrass, Peverell (which had turned into so many different families, Harry could hardly keep track,) and towards the back, Malfoy. Draco, the boy from the robe shop, was the youngest of a family even older than Harry’s —  so old, in fact, they were in the back of the book as well, under a table called “The Sacred Twenty-Eight.” It read:

 

“To our Muggle-born readers — the Sacred Twenty-Eight was a distinction laid upon twenty-eight families of old wizarding blood early in the twentieth century. They were considered to be the richest, most important or simply oldest ‘pure-blooded’ families in England at the time. Although all of the family trees of these families have been included within this publication, it is only to show the historical impact of these families, and not to take a particular political stance.” 

 

Harry felt rather funny in the stomach when he read that — money, Harry had learned when he was very young, could make people do strange things. Everyone had fawned over Dudley at school because they knew they could never get him in trouble — Uncle Vernon was a very big deal at his drill-making firm, and so he had quite a bit more money than some of the other students’ parents, which meant that none of the school administrators would hear a bad word about Dudley, no matter how many heads he shoved into toilets, or how many lunches his friends stole for him. Harry wasn’t sure, but what if that carried over to wizards, as well? He thought he’d been perfectly nice to Draco Malfoy, but what if he’d been branded as a freak before he even started school? 

 

He certainly hoped not, and he knew he couldn’t do anything about it even if he had, but he couldn’t focus on the enormous family trees after that, so instead, he turned to ‘A History of Magic,’ his enormous history textbook, and began to read. Harry wanted to know as much as possible, as soon as possible —  even if the other students thought he was strange, he’d be the best possible student he could be. Nothing had ever felt as bad as disappointing his teachers had —  they’d wanted so badly to like him, he’d thought, with the way they looked at him with sad eyes when he had to tell them he hadn’t been able to do his homework. He’d never have to do that again, he promised himself. Harry had never really been good at anything, other than weeding his aunt’s garden and not burning toast, but he was going to be a  _ great _ wizard, no matter what.

  
  


—

 

Harry woke with a start the next morning, still buried in his books. He felt as though he were waking in a dream— He could see the morning light streaming in through the window, and the high ceiling felt as though it was miles away, rather than the dusty roof of his cupboard, barely a foot away from his face, and covered in spiders. Harry had missed dinner the night before, he realized, although that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that he’d missed dinner by choice, because he was too busy reading about wars with goblins and witches and dragons, all of which could have come out of the wildest fantasy books Harry had ever read, but had been included in his very dry history book as though everyone would already know all about it. It was miraculous— and all unbelievably, amazingly real. Harry could scarcely believe it, and yet there he was, in a wizard’s inn. He climbed out of bed, still stunned over the sheer wonder of it all, and went into the loo to wash his face. It took him a beat of staring at himself, and the bathtub behind him, before he realized that he could draw himself a bath now, just because he wanted to, and not because anyone had allowed him to. So he did draw himself a bath, and he floated about in the big clawfoot tub as though he were floating on an enormous, warm cloud. Harry had never been allowed to take a bath until his skin was wrinkled, and he stayed in until the water was starting to turn cold, just because he enjoyed it so much. He felt as though the whole world had opened up in front of him overnight, and when he got dressed in his brand-new robes, Harry thought to himself that he looked like a real wizard. 

 

It didn’t even occur to Harry that most people got to eat three meals a day, until he went downstairs, and Tom came over to see if he was alright. 

 

“‘Missed ye at dinner, lad. Feeling alright?” He asked, peering down at Harry.

 

“I fell asleep reading,” Harry told him, smiling.

 

“Ack, and here I was a’worryin’ like a mother hen. Well, we’ll fix ye right up with a proper English breakfast.” Tom waved Harry over to one of the wooden tables scattered throughout the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry took the time to look at all the people that were already there.

 

There were witches and wizards of all ages, gathered around long tables, perched at Tom’s bar, or clustered into corners, whispering to themselves. 

 

Harry paid very little mind to the whispering and was just tucking into the frankly enormous plate a very nice waitress brought him, when the whispering became so loud it was like a buzzing, all throughout the room. Everyone seemed to be focused on the front door of the pub, where a crowd had amassed in a tight circle. The crowd was being steadily pushed back, but as one or two people fell away, another three or four came up to take their place. Harry couldn’t possibly imagine what would gather that much attention in a wizard’s pub, so, feeling rather silly, he craned his neck to try and see through the throng of people.

 

At the center of the crowd, Harry could just see the tip of what he thought might have been a bird, perched upon someone’s head. When he tilted his head a little, he could see that the bird  _ was _ on someone’s head, but it was a stuffed bird, attached to a hat, which perched on the head of an old woman, who was brandishing an enormous purse as a sort of weapon, driving back the crowd of people from a chubby boy who looked to be about Harry’s age. He couldn’t possibly imagine what it was about this boy that had drawn so much attention from everyone around him, but it must have been him they were interested in — no one so much as looked at the old woman, until her purse came dangerously close to smacking them in the arm, or the face. 

 

The whole scene made no sense to Harry, and he had real, actual sausages in front of him that were just for him, so he focused on his breakfast, and left the crowd to it.

 

When Harry had eaten about half the plate of eggs, grilled tomatoes, sausages, toast and jam, he left two silver sickles on the table to pay for it all, and went up to his room to start reading his books again. He had  _ so many _ he wanted to read, and only a few weeks to go before the school term was due to start. Harry switched out ‘A History of Magic’ for one of the newer history books he’d bought to find out about his parents. Tom had called their deaths a tragedy, but Harry doubted that Tom even knew what a car  _ was _ , and he wanted to get to the bottom of it, to finally find out why he’d been stuck with the Dursleys, the most horrible  _ muggles _ in the world, if Harry had been a wizard all along. 

 

He discovered, as he read the book, that there had once been a wizard, who the author hadn’t even dared to name, who had thought, as Harry thought he might, that muggles shouldn’t have been able to do magic — they had a whole world without it, full of things witches and wizards didn’t need or want, and horrible people who locked children in cupboards, Harry was pretty sure, becaause they could do magic. So this wizard had believed that muggles, and muggle _ borns _ ought to stay in their own world, and live their own lives, because they didn’t need magic, and they didn’t deserve it. Which all seemed about right to Harry— except this wizard had tried to do that by  _ killing  _ them. And that, no matter what the Dursleys had done, didn’t seem at all right to Harry. But then, he reasoned, hadn’t they burned people at the stake for being witches, back in the olden days? If his aunt and uncle, who thought of themselves as the height of society, would lock Harry in a cupboard, and, if he was being quite honest, starve him half to death, when he upset them, didn’t it make sense that muggles had already been killing wizards for hundreds of years? Harry wasn’t sure, and he didn’t think murder was right, but maybe it had just been one of those adult  _ things _ , when people got so fed up they started fighting, and it had all sort of spun out of control.

 

It wasn’t as though the people fighting this wizard had done any better, he thought. The book said that wizards on the other side had killed other wizards while defending “helpless” muggles. Which was absurd, because Harry had seen enough news programs over the Dursleys’ shoulders to know that muggles had guns, and they could kill just about as many people as they wanted, all while pressing a little trigger. Guns weren’t allowed in Britain, but if you needed them, all you had to do was call the special police, and they would come with enormous guns bigger than Harry’s whole body. So he didn’t understand at all how they could say muggles were helpless. There weren’t that many wizards at all, Harry was shocked to realize, because so many of them had killed each other over muggles. The author said the Ministry for Magic (which Harry immediately wanted to know all about,) estimated that nearly a quarter of all the wizards in the UK had died during the war, and more still were in the wizarding prison, Azkaban. Harry couldn’t believe that that many people— magical, wonderful people who belonged to a world so much better than the muggle one— had died for muggles, who probably wouldn’t have crossed the street to say hello to them, much less  _ die _ for them. 

 

The people who had fought for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (the wizard the author would not name,) were called Death Eaters, which certainly made Harry think twice, but he thought that it probably hadn’t been intended to mean they really  _ ate _ people— it was like a motorcycle gang or something. The other side had had a strange name as well— The Order of the Phoenix— which quashed Harry’s doubts about the whole thing. Both sides had been insisting they couldn’t die, like they could scare each other into giving up the war that way. 

 

Harry had to imagine that his mother hadn’t liked the part about muggleborns being sent back to the muggles, but he was sure they would have made an exception for her. The Dursleys were so horrible, Harry was sure that his grandparents couldn’t have been much better, so it made sense to him that his mother probably hadn’t much liked muggles anyway. So it was an enormous shock for Harry to see his parents listed as members of the Order of the Phoenix. 

 

‘Lily and James Potter,’ it read, ‘killed in their home by Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, and Bartemius Crouch Jr. in defense of Order secrets.’ 

 

How could they fight for muggles, after his aunt? How could they die, how could they leave Harry all alone, knowing who would end up raising him— all his life, Harry had thought his parents couldn’t help that they’d died, it had been a freak accident and no one’s fault at all— but his parents had given up their lives,  _ his  _ life, for people who hated him, hated  _ them _ . It wasn’t fair, he thought, desperately trying not to cry. Parents were supposed to love you, and yet he was just a little footnote in his parents’ lives, just like he always had been. Strange little Harry Potter, whose own parents hadn’t loved him enough to stay alive.

 

He read it over again, trying to make sense of what could have possibly driven them to do it. They had died in their own home— the book said most people had gone into hiding, and Harry knew his dad’s parents had died before the war even started— it said so on their family tree. So that meant Harry had probably even been there with them when they died— his own parents hadn’t cared enough to live for him, to protect him, and yet nothing had actually happened to Harry. It was so strange, it made his head sort of hurt— why hadn’t the three people who’d killed his parents killed him, as well? He was just a baby, and he doubted anyone had come to save him— it said right on page twenty-four that there hadn’t been any “organized law enforcement,” so no one had stopped them. But he was here, in the Leaky Cauldron, at eleven years old, about to cry, not long dead along with his parents. Had they just not seen him? Had they decided not to kill a baby? Why was Harry alive, when a whole quarter of all the other witches and wizards that were supposed to be alive weren’t?

 

He didn’t know, but the more he read, the angrier he got— Harry had never had a temper tantrum, had never gotten really angry or started crying when he hadn’t gotten his way, because it would have just made everything worse— now, he wanted to throw something, cry and get all red in the face the way Dudley had always done. It wasn’t bad enough that Harry’s parents hadn’t loved him enough to give up a bunch of old secrets— it wouldn’t have mattered at all if they lived or died, because their side had been  _ losing _ . The only reason why Harry hadn’t been raised here, with other wizards, in a world where no muggles were allowed, was because of the pudgy boy he’d seen downstairs. His name was Neville Longbottom, and when  _ he _ had been a baby, his parents had died to protect him, and when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had tried to kill a baby everyone had said would eventually defeat him, Neville had lived, and the whole war had come to a grinding halt. Harry’s parents had died for absolutely  _ nothing _ , he thought, angrily scrubbing his hands at the tears rolling down his cheeks, and the stupid boy everyone had wanted to see, to talk to, had ruined Harry’s life even worse than his parents had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! i just wanted to let you know that the reason this is updating so slowly is that i am rewriting the rewrite. i started this over four years ago, when i was fifteen, going on sixteen, and the original fic was very short and very choppy. the fics that came, later on, were much longer, much better and overall reflected how much i had grown as a writer from my sophomore year in high school to my sophomore year in college, so i took everything down and started reworking the first two fics in the series so that it wasn't so obvious it had been written years afterward. that being said, i am a sophomore in college, and i tend to be really busy, so i really only work on this when i have the time. so, i'm sorry it updates so slowly, but i can assure you it's way better than the original, and hopefully, it's worth the wait :)


	4. Summer In the Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he supposed that Tom had been right— it would probably be Ravenclaw for Harry. That was the house that had been founded ‘in the pursuit of knowledge,’ that expected you to work hard, study harder and to learn as much as you could.
> 
> He talked about it, later, with Tom’s granddaughter, Hannah. She lived on the third floor with her mother, and she usually came over to play with Circe while he ate breakfast.
> 
> “I’m going to be in Hufflepuff,” she told him matter-of-factly, as she dragged a piece of string across the floor for Circe to pounce on. “My whole family’s been in Hufflepuff. I asked mum, and she said your parents were both in Gryffindor.”

CHAPTER FOUR: SUMMER IN THE ALLEY

 

  
Harry didn’t throw any of his books, no matter how badly he wanted to. He was so upset, he thought he might burst, and there was nothing at all to make him feel better. He picked up his bag of coins and stuck his wand in the pocket of his robes before he went to the loo and washed off his face. Harry had never thought of himself as the sort of boy who was handsome, or nice to look at, but as he peered into the mirror, he looked even worse than he normally did. His face was all blotchy from crying, his eyes were sort of red, and he wanted a hug so badly he thought he might break out into tears all over again. The worst part was that Harry couldn’t even remember the last time someone had hugged him. He was so lonely it hurt, and it wasn’t as though he could go downstairs and ask Tom for a hug— the old man was one of the nicest people Harry had ever met, but Harry was still one of his customers.

 

So Harry did the only thing he could think of, and went downstairs into the pub, out through the stone archway, and into the Alley itself. There was a pet shop, Harry had seen the day before, and he was allowed to bring a pet to school with him. He’d never had a pet before, and he’d never even dreamed that he’d get one, but it would be his birthday in about a week, and he wanted, very badly, something that would love him, no matter what.

 

Magical Menagerie, like everything else in Harry’s new life, was totally unexpected, and he couldn’t help but smile as he looked inside. There was an enormous tortoise by the window, its’ shell glittering with real gemstones, and Harry went inside to go and have a look at everything else. It was a very cramped little store, which smelled horribly and was taken up mostly by cages of varying shapes and sizes, some on shelves, and others stacked on top of each other precariously. There were all sorts of animals Harry had never seen before, like a pair of toads that were bright purple, each one larger than Harry’s head. They were eating dead flies from a bowl, and Harry had to turn away, as watching them eat did very bad things to his stomach. Next to the toads was a tank full of poisonous, orange snails, who traced oozing patterns across the glass. Then came some ravens, angrily cawing at a vulture that sat across from them, and a cage full of rats of all different sizes and colors, who had been pushed about as far as they possibly could be from the birds, and then some cats, who were also placed neatly away from the rats and the birds. Harry thought that if one animal got loose from their cage, it would be an absolute madhouse, with all of the different animals who would love to each one another.

 

He wandered over to a cage with a mother cat and her kittens, who were all huddled around her belly, except for one little black kitten with a white paw— she was so tiny, she couldn’t even squeeze in behind her brothers and sisters without them giving her a kick or a shove that sent her stumbling backward. The kitten let out a piteous little mewl, and Harry felt as though this kitten, who was the runt of the litter, totally ignored by her mother— this was the kitten for Harry. He wanted to take her home and swaddle her with love and warm milk and all the things no one had ever done for him. He made his way through the maze of cages to the front counter, where the saleswoman (saleswitch?) was eagerly chatting away with a man who looked to be about a hundred years old.

 

“Can I help you, dear?” She asked, peering down at him over the rim of enormous horn-rim spectacles.

 

“Yes, please,” Harry said. “I’d like to buy one of your kittens.”

 

She smiled at him and patted the old man on the hand. “Just a minute Arthur, I’ll be right with you.” The saleswitch pulled out an enormous ring of keys from underneath and came around the counter with a flourish, the keys jingling loudly.

 

“I’d imagine you’ve already fallen in love with one of them, am I right?” She asked.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, pointing to the cage with the mother and her kittens. “The little one, please.”

 

She smiled and pointed her wand at the key ring, which shuffled about as though the keys were files in a cabinet, before landing on one bronze key that held the whole ring in the air for her, and when she waved her wand, it went over and unlocked the cage by itself. Then, very gently, she pulled the little kitten from the cage and held her out to Harry.

 

He took the kitten like she was made out of glass, but when she got into his arms, she burrowed herself into his robes immediately. Harry didn’t think he’d ever loved anything as fast as he loved the fuzzy little bundle in his arms.

 

“She seems to like you,” the saleswitch laughed and locked up the cage again.

 

Harry followed her back to the counter slowly, careful not to jostle the kitten in his arms. The saleswitch charged him two galleons for his kitten and another galleon for a sort of magical carrier and a brush.

 

He took the carrier in a bag because he didn’t want to put her inside of it— he knew it was silly, but it reminded him of his cupboard.

 

He took her back to the Leaky Cauldron, desperately trying not to bump into anyone in the alleyway, or to drop her.

 

Tom waved at him when he went back into the pub, so Harry went over to the bar to say hello to him.

 

“More shopping to do, lad?” Tom asked, setting aside his rag to look down at Harry’s arms.

 

He smiled and tilted his arms forward so Tom could see.

 

“Ah, ‘s a pretty little thing, she is.” Tom ducked under the bar and came back up with a bottle of milk and a chipped tea saucer. “Imagine she’ll be after this for a while yet.”

 

“Oh, thank you!” Harry hadn’t thought of feeding her yet, although he probably should have. He gingerly took the bottle between his thumb and his first two fingers, and slid the saucer in between the last two, so that he could hold his kitten in the crook of his other arm.

 

“No trouble, lad. Have ye named her yet?” Asked Tom, as he gave Harry one of his big, mostly toothless smiles.

 

“No, I haven’t. I’ve just gotten her,” He said, by way of explanation.

 

“Well, plenty of time ‘fore she’ll need one. Dare say she won’t remember fer a while now.” Tom waved him off with his rag. “Go on and get, now, and don’t sleep through supper again.”

 

Harry nodded eagerly and set off up the stairs. What would he name her, he wondered. There had been all sorts of ancient witches and elves and things he could name her after, he supposed. When he got to his room, he put her gently on one of his pillows, and cleared the books off of the bed, before he set the bottle of milk and the tea saucer on the bedside table, and poured some milk into the saucer. The kitten peered over the end of the pillow at the saucer, and nearly went bed first off the bed before Harry caught her with a hand under her belly.

 

He held her up in front of his face, and told her very solemnly, “Be careful.” She looked at him curiously for a minute and then licked him on the nose. Harry hugged her very gently and set her on the bedside table. She sniffed at the milk, and then very nearly put her whole head in the saucer.

 

Harry named her Circe, not because he thought his kitten was going to get revenge on her enemies, but because he thought one day he’d really be someone, and so she ought to sound important.

 

  
—

 

On Harry’s eleventh birthday, he got his first present— although he bought it for himself, he thought it counted because the nicest thing the Dursleys had ever given him had been a pair of old socks. Harry had already gone through his wizard history book, the book of family trees, two wizard novels he’d really enjoyed (even if he hadn’t totally understood them,) and a book on wands, so for his birthday, he bought himself five new books. “Wizards at the Holidays: Yule for the Uninitiated,” which he’d hidden at the bottom of the pile; “Hogwarts: A History,” when he’d realized he didn’t actually know anything about his new school; “The Ten-Day Charm,” which was a mystery novel, and the sequel to it, in case Harry didn’t finish it until school started, and he liked the first one; and “Feline Focus,” which was a training book for cats.

 

If Harry had thought that Flourish and Blotts was crowded when he’d gone in to get his school books, it was nothing compared to the crowd that was there on his birthday.

 

“Is there something special going on?” He asked the saleswitch, as she rang out his books for him.

 

“Just the Hogwarts crowd— most of them scramble in at the end of the summer. Already got yours?” She asked him, as she handed over his bag of books.

 

He nodded and thanked her before he squeezed his way out through a big throng of people coming through the front door.

 

There was an ice cream parlour at the other end of Diagon Alley, next to a second-hand bookshop, so Harry went in and bought himself a birthday sundae. He’d never actually had a sundae before— the last time he’d had any ice cream at all had been when he’d been about seven, and they’d given out ice pops at school— so he was a little perplexed by all the different choices.

 

Mr. Fortescue, the man who owned the ice cream parlour, came over when Harry was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the whole thing.

 

“Too many choices?” Mr. Fortescue asked, smiling down at Harry from over the counter.

 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, feeling more lost looking at ice cream than he had when he’d learned he was a wizard.

 

“How about I give you our best seller— chocolate and raspberry with walnuts?” He pointed out the two enormous containers of ice cream, and Harry nodded gratefully.

 

Mr. Fortescue charged him five sickles for the ice cream, and Harry sat outside at a little table in the sunshine, just thinking about how unbelievably happy he was. He couldn’t think of anything he’d ever eaten that was better than that ice cream, and he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron in a sort of a daze, as he thought about how wonderful everything was going to be from then on.

 

Circe was waiting for him when he got back, and she curled up in his lap as soon as he sat down on the big four-poster bed. He scratched behind her ears periodically as he read aloud from his new book on wizarding holidays.

 

“Wizards celebrate a great many more holidays than muggles,” he read, “as holidays are both ancient traditions, a way to reconnect with family and loved ones, and markers for the shifting of different magical energies throughout the year. Unlike the muggle year, which is strongly concentrated around the birth of Christ in December, the wizarding calendar can be split into four quarters, with one major holiday to mark each season. There is the Festival of Midsummer at the Summer Solstice, on June 21st; Samhain, on October 31st; the Yuletide, which begins on the Winter Solstice (the 21st of December,) and ends on the New Year, January 1st; and finally, Beltane, on the 1st of May.”

 

Harry had never paid much attention to the holidays— it wasn’t as though he were going to get any presents or eat any better. Harry wasn’t even allowed to go out and play in the snow in the wintertime— he was usually locked in his cupboard, or in the spare bedroom, or serving the Dursleys dinner. Harry had always thought that he wouldn’t like the holidays very much, no matter how old he was, but his new life really was new, and the book assured him that it would come with holidays where it didn’t matter if you didn’t have a family to buy you presents— that that would be the last thing on Harry’s mind, with the bonfires, parties, and feasts.

 

When he’d finished the first chapter of that book, Harry put it aside, and opened “Hogwarts: A History.” It was enormous— the front cover was bigger than Harry’s head— and he wanted to read the whole thing before he went off to school. No one needed to know that Harry had grown up with muggles, he thought, and he didn’t want them to.

 

So Harry devoured chapter after chapter. Hogwarts had been built a thousand years ago, he read, by four very powerful witches and wizards. That’s what Tom had meant when he’d muttered about Harry being a ‘Ravenclaw—’ Rowena Ravenclaw had been one of the four people who’d built the school, and so every Hogwarts student went into a house that had been founded by (and named after) those four people. There had been Godric Gryffindor, whose house valued courage and bravery, but who, as far as Harry could tell, tended to be arrogant and self-important. The book didn’t say that, certainly, but Harry could read between the lines.

 

Then there was Helga Hufflepuff, who had been loving and kind and wanted every student at the school to succeed. When she’d started her house, she’d taken all the students who were supportive and nice, not the students who were competitive and selfish. Harry was sure if he went into that house, he’d never run out of friends, but there was something about the way the author talked about the ‘bond’ between them that made Harry think they might have expected one another to stay on the same level— to never stand out.

 

Salazar Slytherin had wanted people who were cunning and ambitious— and Harry was ambitious, he knew. If he hadn’t been ambitious, he would have still been in his cupboard, silently counting down the days until he went to some horrible muggle school, never knowing all the things that were waiting for him. But Slytherin hadn’t wanted any students who didn’t come from wizarding families, and even though Harry’s family was old and full of more wizards than he could ever count, that was the problem— he was sure he would stick out like a sore thumb with people who had grown up knowing they were wizards.

 

So he supposed that Tom had been right— it would probably be Ravenclaw for Harry. That was the house that had been founded ‘in the pursuit of knowledge,’ that expected you to work hard, study harder and to learn as much as you could.

 

He talked about it, later, with Tom’s granddaughter, Hannah. She lived on the third floor with her mother, and she usually came over to play with Circe while he ate breakfast.

 

“I’m going to be in Hufflepuff,” she told him matter-of-factly, as she dragged a piece of string across the floor for Circe to pounce on. “My whole family’s been in Hufflepuff. I asked mum, and she said your parents were both in Gryffindor.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything— he didn’t know what to make of his parents. They must have thought they were doing the right thing, but they’d been so wrong. So Harry was just going to go to school and go to whatever house suited him best, not which house his parents wanted him to be in. Of course, he didn’t tell Hannah that.

 

Instead, he said, “I didn’t know that,” and let the subject drop.

 

“Are you excited about school?” She asked, looking up from Circe and the string.

 

Harry brightened up a bit after that. “I’m really excited for classes,” he told her, “I’ve already read half the textbooks.”

 

She laughed until she seemed to realize he was serious. “Why would you read them before school even starts?” Hannah asked.

 

Harry gave her a little half-shrug. “I like to read a lot,” he told her.

 

“Don’t you think you’ll be bored?” She asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Harry said, “I don’t think professors just teach you straight from the book. I’m sure they know loads of things that aren’t even in them, so if you already know what’s in the book, you can just focus on the class.”

 

“I guess that’s true,” Hannah said, “I’d never even thought about it like that. I guess you should be in Ravenclaw!” She beamed, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

 

He liked Hannah, and he hoped that house rivalries weren’t that important at Hogwarts— he thought the two of them could be friends if they spent more time together. Hannah changed her mind more than most people changed their clothes, but Harry didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing— after all, the Dursleys had never changed their minds once in Harry’s whole life, and it had made him miserable.

 

So he spent a few hours with Hannah every day, where they would play with Circe, or go and get ice cream, and she even agreed to go to the bookstore with him a few times, although he mostly bought books by himself. If Harry could make friends with the first girl he met who was his own age, he was sure he didn’t need to worry about people thinking he was strange.

 

  
—

 

The day Harry was due to go to Hogwarts, he woke up at a quarter past four in the morning, and couldn’t get back to sleep, no matter how hard he tried. He tossed and turned all over the bed, and finally, he got up and started to pack his school trunk. It was harder than Harry’d thought it would be— he had so many books, he had to line the inside of his trunk with them to get everything else to fit. There was a layer of books along the bottom of the trunk, then pages and pages of parchment tied together with leather cords, then his cauldron and his scales, both very carefully arranged. Harry’s telescope was neatly folded up between them, and his set of potions vials (very carefully wrapped in paper) went on top of it all. Then he’d stacked more books along the sides of the trunk, and put all of his robes on top, carefully folded. All packed, the trunk was enormously heavy, and Harry wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to get it to the train station. He had to drag it behind him on the stairs, careful not to hit Circe with it, or to catch the back of his shoes.

 

Harry ate breakfast in the Leaky Cauldron and was just beginning to worry about what he would wear into muggle London (he had thrown Dudley’s old hand-me-downs out in a temper after he’d read about his parents,) when Hannah came downstairs with her mother. Harry had met Hannah’s mother before, although it was usually very briefly. Mrs. Abbott handled the finances for the pub, since Tom, her father, was really too old to handle them by himself. She looked a lot like Hannah, with shoulder-length blond hair, a long nose, and sort of thin lips. Hannah came along after her, holding her trunk as though it didn’t weigh a thing. Harry stared at her, puzzled until she plopped herself into the chair next to him to say hello to Circe.

 

“Isn’t your trunk heavy?” Harry asked.

 

“Oh, no,” Hannah said, scratching behind Circe’s ears. “Mummy spelled it lighter for me.”

 

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling very stupid.

 

“Would you like to come with us to catch the train?” She asked. “I noticed you don’t really have anyone to take you.”

 

“Will that be alright with your mother?” Harry asked.

 

“The more the merrier, dear,” said Mrs. Abbott, from directly behind him. Harry jumped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

She came around the other side of the table, and Harry could see a hint of a smile on her face.

 

“I don’t apparate, I’m afraid, so I hope you’re alright with a portkey.” She said, pulling out a very old hairbrush from the pocket of her robe.

 

“Oh, um, that’s alright,” said Harry, who had no idea what a portkey was, but didn’t want to say so.

 

Mrs. Abbott nodded and waited patiently while Harry and Hannah got Circe into her carrier. She didn’t seem to like it any more than Harry did, but he had no idea how he would get her there otherwise. Once they were done, Mrs. Abbott steered them into the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron, and at nearly a quarter of eleven, she placed the old hairbrush flat in the palm of her hand and following what Hannah was doing, he put one of his fingers on the handle and tried to seem like he had done any of it before.

 

One second, Harry was in a tiny little alley, and the next he was flying through the air in what he could only describe as a three-person tornado. It didn’t hurt at all, but he was a little scared of what would happen when they came down. Mrs. Abbott also seemed to be worried about it, for she grabbed both of them by the elbow just before she yelled: “Let go!”

 

When Harry pulled his finger off of the hairbrush, the air suddenly felt like an invisible staircase, and Mrs. Abbott pulled them along carefully, making sure (he thought) that they didn’t go plummeting to the ground all of a sudden. It was, Harry thought, probably the strangest trip of his life— he didn’t dare look down, but as they descended, he could see enormous marble pillars, ceilings that were so tall they could have built a house underneath them, and finally, a crowd of witches and wizards, bidding goodbye to children ranging from Harry’s age and a little older, to bored-looking teenagers who were shrugging off parents and younger siblings. In front of all of them was an enormous red steam-engine, which looked as though it had been pulled directly from the 1800’s. When they landed, Harry’s trunk suddenly became very heavy again, and came to rest on the floor with a fairly loud ‘thunk.’

 

Mrs. Abbott ‘tsked,’ and pulled out her wand before she whispered something, and Harry’s trunk suddenly didn’t weigh anything at all.

 

“Thank you,” he said, suddenly aware that Hannah was going to want to say goodbye to her mother, “and thank you for the trip.”

 

Mrs. Abbott smiled, “You’re very welcome. Have a good school year.”

 

He smiled back. “I’ll see you on the train?” He asked Hannah, and when she nodded, he pushed his way out through the throngs of people, and onto the train.

 

The inside of the Hogwarts Express was like nothing Harry had ever seen before— there were rows and rows of old-fashioned compartments, with rich velvet seats and overhead racks for trunks and things. Harry had only been on a muggle train once, and that had been for a school trip when he was younger— but the Hogwarts Express wasn’t anything like that train, which had been smelly, crowded and full of hard, uncomfortable seats where you were pressed in against other people like canned sardines.

 

Harry went down the aisle, peering into each compartment to check if they were full. It took him about twenty or so before he found an empty one, and he placed Circe’s carrier on the seat, careful not to jostle her before he stood on his very tiptoes to push his trunk up onto the overhead rack. He’d thought about taking out one of his books, but Hannah was going to come and sit with him, and he thought it would be rude to just sit there reading.

 

So instead he let Circe out of her carrier— she looked very put out, but when he scratched behind her ears, she decided she wasn’t too angry and curled up into a ball on his lap. He sat there absentmindedly petting her and looking out the window while he waited for Hannah to come along.

 

At eleven o’clock exactly, the train began to pull out of the station, and Harry watched as the crowd of witches and wizards blurred with the train’s speed, and eventually vanished from sight. He started watching the door then, waiting for Hannah to come along so he could wave her inside. It took a few minutes, but eventually, someone did come along. It wasn’t Hannah, though— it was Malfoy, the boy from Madame Malkin’s. Behind him were two enormous boys that reminded Harry very badly of Dudley— none of them looked like they were in a particularly good mood, and Harry swallowed nervously.

 

“Get ou— Oh, Potter,” Malfoy seemed taken aback, but that didn’t stop him from swaggering into the compartment like he owned it.

 

“Er, hello,” said Harry, who had just decided that he was going to be very nice (he was pretty sure that Malfoy’s big, mean friends would pick up where Dudley’s gang had left off if he wasn’t.) “Would you like to sit down?”

 

Malfoy looked at Harry very strangely, as though people didn’t normally ask him to sit down. They probably didn’t— Malfoy was very, very rich, Harry knew, so he probably just made himself at home wherever he was. But Malfoy sat, and the two hulking boys sat one on each side. Harry didn’t know if that was supposed to scare him, but it did. He tried very hard not to squirm.

 

“This is Crabbe,” Malfoy said, obliviously, as he waved a hand to the shorter boy on his left side, “and Goyle,” as he waved at the taller one.

 

They both grunted in acknowledgement, and Harry smiled at them very politely. “Hello,” he said. More grunts.

 

“So,” Harry said, awkwardly, “how was your summer?”

 

Malfoy looked at him very strangely, then, in a slow drawl, said “Dreadful. My father— he’s one of the school governors, you know— had all sorts of meetings in the manor, and they were constantly getting lost and turning up in the worst places. And then he wouldn’t let me bring a broom to Hogwarts, as though they would actually stop me!”

 

Harry nodded very seriously, to show that he was listening. To himself, he thought that he wished Crabbe and Goyle had kicked him out of the compartment.

 

“There’s really nothing to do at all during the summer— there’s flying, of course, but I’m already so good, and they won’t even let me play on the Quidditch team until second year— so what’s the point in practising, really.”

 

Harry nodded again. He had a feeling that this was going to go on for a while, whether or not he responded at all.

 

“And the festival was horrible, of course— both of them,” Malfoy jabbed his thumbs in Crabbe and Goyle’s respective directions, “down with Dragon Pox, so I had to go alone. I had to hear about Zabini’s trip to Italy for an hour.” He sniffed.

 

Harry had no idea who Zabini was.

 

“Oh, you haven’t met Zabini, ”Malfoy said, as though he had just remembered that Harry had been raised by muggles. “He’s insufferable, and he’s always hanging about, chiming in when no one’s asked for his opinion.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry, who was trying to think of something to say about this boy who he’d never met, “how awful.”

 

“And that isn’t even the half of it, with the way his mother cavorts about, husband-shopping all over Europe.” Malfoy sneered. “My mother thinks that she ought to be shut out entirely, but of course no one will say so.”

 

Crabbe and Goyle grunted in affirmation, as though Malfoy had said something very intelligent. Harry considered jumping out of the train.

 

“Of course he’ll be in Slytherin as well,” Malfoy sniffed again.

 

“Oh, do you think you’ll be in Slytherin?” Harry asked if only to talk about something he actually knew anything about.

 

“Oh, I forgot, Potter, you were raised by muggles,” Malfoy sneered horribly, as though Harry had been raised by cockroaches instead. “Every Malfoy has been in Slytherin,” he said proudly.

 

“Oh,” said Harry, who had no idea what to say to that. He settled on, “that must be very reassuring, not having to worry and all.”

 

Malfoy arched one pale eyebrow. “Are you worried, Potter?”

 

Harry gave a sort of half-shrug— he didn’t want to show any weakness in front of a boy like Malfoy. “I suppose not, but I wouldn’t like to be surprised by something like that,” he said, carefully.

 

“Well that’s perfectly sensible,” said Malfoy. “I think I’d throw myself off the roof if I got sorted into Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.”

 

“Ravenclaw’s all right, then?” Harry asked, a little interested, despite himself.

 

“Ravenclaw isn’t horrible,” Malfoy said, “although I can’t imagine reading books all the time.”

 

Harry smiled under his breath.

 

“Something funny?” Malfoy asked, watching Harry with sharp eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” Harry said, “only I’m pretty sure I’ll be in Ravenclaw— my suitcase is mostly full of books.”

 

That didn’t make Malfoy watch him any less intently, although he did look less angry.

 

“Really.” He said. It wasn’t a question.

 

“I’ve already read all our textbooks, I’m afraid,” Harry said. He figured he ought to throw himself in the deep end, and hopefully, Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t do anything horrible to him. “I didn’t have anything else to do over the summer.”

 

“You never thought of going into Slytherin?” Malfoy asked, still scrutinizing him.

 

“I did,” Harry told him. It was true if nothing else, “but, I’m…” He trailed off.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Potter,” Malfoy waved his hand. “If you keep with the right sort, no one will ever know the difference.”

 

Harry tried not to stare at him— he was pretty sure Malfoy had just tried to blackmail him into being his friend. The funny thing was, Malfoy was right, no one would ever notice that Harry hadn’t been raised by wizards— Malfoy talked so much, he didn’t think he’d ever have to worry about talking again. Clearly, it was working out well for Crabbe and Goyle, but Harry had never been like that. He wasn’t Piers Polkiss, following around the meanest, strongest boy at school.

 

But of course, he didn’t say that. Instead, Harry said, “Oh, that’s quite a relief,” and smiled.


	5. The Sorting Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door swung open immediately. There was a witch on the other side, tall and severe, with a big bun of black hair and striking emerald green robes.
> 
> “The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” the tall man said.
> 
> “Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE: THE SORTING HAT

 

  
“So, Potter, what are muggles like? On a daily basis, I mean.” Draco Malfoy leaned closer to Harry, as though he’d just asked him a friendly question.

 

Harry swallowed. Then he swallowed again. Then he took a deep breath, determined to say something normal.

 

“They’re horrible,” Harry said, determined to keep all the angry, volatile thoughts to himself.

 

“Yes, of course, but how did they treat you?” Malfoy asked.

 

“How did they treat me?” Harry repeated. He wasn’t going to yell at Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle would throttle him. “How do you treat a bug?”

 

Malfoy just stared at him, then made a little ‘continue’ gesture with his hand.

 

Harry had eleven years of pent-up anger that he’d never once been able to tell anyone— it all came rushing out at once. “They locked me in a cupboard. Every day. They told me I wasn’t worth anything at all and then they took everything I’d ever had away from me— I scrubbed their floors and cooked their food and got chased up trees by their stupid son who couldn’t add two and three together. They sneered at me and called me worthless while they went through their pointless lives. They beat children and kill each other over the stupidest things you can imagine— why do they get to live out in the open, and wizards are hidden away in the back corners of the world? Why did we ever give anything up to them, at all? I hate them, I always have, and I don’t understand why wizards ever fought over people who are no better than rats.”

 

Malfoy was staring at him. Really, really staring at him. Crabbe and Goyle even seemed flabbergasted. Harry pressed a shaky hand against his mouth, but it was too late. They would think he was a freak, just like everyone always had, and no one would ever want to be his friend.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, “I don’t know where all that came from, I…” He trailed off— it was a lost cause.

 

Malfoy was still staring at him. After a minute, he said, very slowly, “Merlin.”

 

Harry had no idea what that meant, but he felt as though he could cry— what a stupid, stupid thing to do.

 

“Father always told me muggles were savages,” Malfoy finally said. “But I don’t think even he knows how bad it is.”

 

Then it was Harry’s turn to stare. He’d gone on an angry tirade in front of this boy he’d only just met, and Malfoy didn’t seem to think he was strange, or wrong, or even that he should have been less angry. For the first time in Harry’s life, he’d told someone what he thought, what he really thought, and he’d just agreed. Like Harry was right, or he’d said something really important. It seemed to Harry that Malfoy hero-worshipped his father, and yet he’d said that Harry knew something he didn’t.

 

Maybe, he thought, he’d been a bit quick to judge Malfoy.

 

“You know, Potter, you ought to think about Slytherin. You’d never be treated like that again, that’s for certain.” Malfoy sniffed.

 

Harry was strangely touched. Malfoy clearly didn’t know how to go about making friends, but, then again, did Harry? He didn’t think he wanted to pick his house based on whether or not someone else was going to be in it, but Slytherin didn’t sound wrong for him, after all, and he was thinking about it.

 

Someone rapped on their compartment door, and Harry looked up to see an old woman with an enormous assortment of sweets on an old trolley. Crabbe and Goyle stood up immediately, content to pretend the whole conversation hadn’t happened at all.

 

Malfoy stood up slower, and Harry very carefully pulled Circe out of his lap and set her on the seat next to him before he stood up. He was amazed that he hadn’t woken her up, he’d been so angry.

 

Malfoy saddled up to him as Harry was looking over the sweets.

 

“You ought to get some licorice wands,” He said very nonchalantly, “and some pumpkin pasties, if you fancy them.”

 

Harry did as he said, and handed over two sickles for four pasties and two licorice wands. Malfoy, Harry noticed, didn’t seem very interested in anything other than chocolate frogs, which, to Harry’s amazement, looked as though someone had turned a frog to chocolate. Malfoy bought about fifteen of them.

 

Once Malfoy had his frogs, the trolley witch went back to her business, and went on up the corridor. The four of them went back into the compartment, Crabbe and Goyle weighed down by the most enormous piles of candies and cakes that Harry had ever seen. Malfoy rolled his eyes and set about opening his frogs right away. When he opened the first package, the frog jumped high into the air, just before Goyle grabbed it out of mid-air. Harry was flabbergasted.

 

“How do they do that?” He asked Malfoy, who was looking over a piece of paper he’d pulled from the inside of the box.

 

“It’s a charm,” Malfoy said, scowling down at his hand. “Another Dumbledore.” He tossed the piece of paper down on the seat beside him, and Harry could see that it was actually a trading card of some sort, with a small portrait of an old man with very long hair and a very long beard.

 

“That’s Dumbledore?” Harry asked.

 

“Yes,” Malfoy said, although his scowl didn’t move at all. “He’s the biggest muggle lover of them all. Father’s been trying to get him fired for years.”

 

Harry couldn’t believe it.

 

“This year he wanted to start a fund for school supplies,” Malfoy said. He hadn’t noticed that their compartment door was open— there was a girl there with bushy brown hair, who was looking intently at Malfoy. “Says we ought to pay for the muggleborns’ things, nevermind that no one decent actually wants them to go.”

 

The girl in the doorway puffed up at that. “And what’s wrong with muggleborns, exactly?”

 

“I don’t have time to write you a list,” Malfoy drawled. “Can I help you?”

 

She scowled at him, showing off a dreadful overbite. “A boy’s lost his toad, so I’ve agreed to help him look for it. Have you seen it?” She asked, in a voice that made it clear she thought Malfoy might have hexed it.

 

“No,” said Malfoy sharply, “now get out.”

 

And with that, Crabbe got up and slid the door shut in her face.

 

  
—

 

  
It was beginning to get dark by the time the train started to slow down— the sky had gone from blue to pink to orange, and was settling on a vivid purple. A voice echoed through the train and told them: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

 

It was a nervous five minutes for Harry, who had to get Circe back into her carrier, and then had to debate with himself whether she would be better off with his luggage or simply on the seat. He decided against moving her, but then he had nothing to do, other than to nervously fidget with the end of his robe sleeve. This seemed to bother Malfoy, so Harry stopped almost immediately, but it didn’t help with the nervous energy that hummed through Harry’s whole body.

 

The train slowed down all the way, and then came to a stop. Crabbe and Goyle, who were very bulky, pushed their way through the crowd that was forming in the aisle, and out onto a tiny, dark platform, where people who looked older than them went off into the dark, toward what looked like carriages. Harry wondered whether or not they should have followed them, but before he could ask Malfoy that, a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the crowd, followed by a booming voice that called: “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

 

Harry could just make out the face and hands of the tallest man he’d ever seen, who had an enormous, thick black moustache, and a long, bushy beard. He looked as though he’d been living in the woods for several years.

 

“C’mon, follow me— any more firs’ years?” The man called. “Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

 

Slipping and stumbling in the dark, they followed the enormous man down a steep, narrow path.

 

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” The man called over his shoulder, “Just round this bend here.”

 

There was a loud “Oooh!”

 

Harry did see it— the path had opened up to the shallow end of an enormous black lake, which stretched out in front of them as far as Harry could see. At the very edge of the lake, far on the other side, was a mountain, and on the mountain was a castle, with hundreds of turrets and towers, and twinkling windows that reflected the stars above them. It was the beautiful building Harry had ever seen.

 

“No more’n four to a boat!” The big man called, and Harry jumped. When Harry looked, he did see a whole fleet of tiny rowboats along the shore of the lake.

 

Harry followed along behind the three other boys, and was very relieved when Malfoy perched on the seat next to him— he still didn’t trust Crabbe or Goyle, mostly because neither of them had said a word to him the whole train ride.

 

“Everyone in?” Shouted the big man. “Right then— FORWARD!”

 

Harry tried not to jolt himself out of the boat when he hollered, and he had to cling to the seat with his hands to keep himself grounded in the boat.

 

But the boats moved off across the lake, and Harry stayed put in the boat, so slowly he unclenched his hands and watched as the castle got closer and closer, until it was looming over them.

 

“Heads down!” called the big man, as the first boats reached a cliff. They ducked underneath a wall of ivy and were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to Harry as though it were underground before they stopped at something of an underground harbor, where they climbed out onto a rocky shore.

 

When they all stood shivering on the rocks, the big man called out to them “Everyone here?” and when it seemed that no one was missing, “Good!”

 

He raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

 

The door swung open immediately. There was a witch on the other side, tall and severe, with a big bun of black hair and striking emerald green robes.

 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” the tall man said.

 

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

 

Harry looked at her again— this was the woman who had sent him his Hogwarts’ letter. She was the deputy headmistress, which explained why she looked so stern.

 

The Hogwarts entry hall was incredibly grand— the overarching ceilings were nearly as tall as those at Kings’ Cross Station, and Harry could see at least five marble staircases, climbing ever higher, into the upper floors of the castle. The only light came from torches, hung all along the walls, painting the marble with flickering, strange shadows. Professor McGonagall led them away from the doorway, across the flagstones and down a corridor, before she stopped and ushered them into an empty room— an empty chamber, he thought, since this was the biggest room Harry had ever been in. He thought they could have comfortably set up a muggle soccer game inside of it, it was so large.

 

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin very shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will all be sorted into your houses. While you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be something like your family— you will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

 

She stared out at them, making eye contact with each and every one of them, to make sure they were listening.

  
"There are four houses here at Hogwarts, and each one of them is a noble institution with a storied history of outstanding witches and wizards. The houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor and a source of house pride. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school— I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.” With that, the Deputy Headmistress returned to the corridor, leaving them alone with one another.

 

There was a strange ‘creak,’ which Harry thought might have come from the door hinge, but when he looked, the door hadn’t closed behind the professor. He listened, and he heard the noise again, although it was lower than a door hinge. Then it came a third time, moving, it seemed, towards the front of the chamber. With a definitive ‘croak,’ a green toad jumped onto the desk in front of them. One of the other first years came out of the crowd to grab it, and Harry could feel Malfoy stiffen next to him.

 

Neville Longbottom turned away from the desk, his toad firmly in hand, and a wave of whispering swept over the first-years. Malfoy didn’t whisper— he shoved. He, Crabbe, Goyle, and Harry, who’d gotten caught in their push through the crowd, emerged at the head of the crowd, two feet away from the boy who’d ruined Harry’s life as an infant.

 

“I heard Neville Longbottom was on the train,” said Malfoy, “It’s you, is it?”

 

Longbottom nodded, hesitantly. Harry got the impression that he was very bad at talking to people. He wondered if his grandmother, the purse swinging crusader, kept him shut away in the house all day.

 

“My name’s Malfoy,” He said, “Draco Malfoy. This is Crabbe, that’s Goyle, and this is Potter.” He pointed each of them out, although his voice had a strange sort of tick to it when he said Harry’s name.

 

Another boy pushed his way through the crowd and came to stand at Longbottom’s left side. “Come on, Neville,” he said, pulling at his elbow.

 

“You ought to be careful who you go making friends with,” Malfoy said, looking at this new boy’s bright red hair and too short robes. “You wouldn’t want to hurt your reputation by being friends with a Weasley. Never too late to start spending time with the right sort.”

 

Harry had no idea what to make of any of this. Malfoy seemed to think he could somehow make Longbottom, a boy who’d won a war before he could talk, change his whole perspective on life in three sentences. Malfoy held out one long, pale hand, and waited.

 

For a few very tense seconds, Longbottom stared at Malfoy’s outstretched hand like it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Then, slowly, he said, “You’re right, Malfoy,” and allowed Weasley to tug him back into the crowd of first years.

 

A pink flush began rising along Malfoy’s cheekbones, and his eyebrows knit together as though he couldn’t believe his plan hadn’t worked immediately.

 

Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway and cleared her throat sharply.

 

“Please form a line," she said, "and follow me."

 

Harry followed along behind Malfoy, who seemed very upset about the way things had gone with Longbottom— he kept elbowing the other first years when they didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Harry wasn’t sure what his rush was— Harry was sure Professor McGonagall already had a list of all the first years, along with the order they were going to be sorted in— he couldn’t think of another way they could keep track of all the students.

 

The first years streamed out of the chamber, and across the corridor, through an enormous set of wooden double doors, and into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

 

It was like nothing Harry had ever imagined, and everything he had ever wanted to see. The hall was filled with students, some barely older than him, and some nearly adults, divided neatly into four tables that stretched the length of the room. The tables were fine mahogany that glimmered with polish, and in front of each student was a golden plate and goblet. Candles floated through the room just above the heads of the tallest students, and they flickered and meandered like wax butterflies overhead. At the end of the hall was another mahogany table, this one full of professors, who ranged in age from Dumbledore, the headmaster, who Harry would guess had to have been about a hundred years old, to a dark haired man at the very furthest place on the left-hand side, who looked around thirty. Directly in front of the professors’ table was a podium, embellished with gold and silver inlay, which sat in front of Professor Dumbledore.

 

But the most astounding thing about the Great Hall was the ceiling— he’d read about it in a book, and they’d said that it was bewitched to look like the sky, but in person, it was as though the founders had brought down a piece of the sky itself, and hung it above their heads like a living tapestry.

 

Harry quickly looked down again when he heard a ‘clack-clack.’ It was the sound of Professor McGonagall placing an old, four-legged stool underneath the podium. She straightened up and put a raggy old wizard’s hat on top of the stool. It was covered in patches and more dirt than Harry had ever seen, and the whole hall seemed to stare at it as though it might burst into flames.

 

Instead, a long, sideways rip along the brim opened, and it burst into song:

 

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.

 

You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.

 

There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.

 

You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;

 

You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuff's are true   
And unafraid of toil;

 

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;

 

Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.

 

So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

 

All of the other students burst into applause, and the hat bowed to each table, one by one before Professor McGonagall stepped out in front of it and said, “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!”

 

Hannah stumbled out of line, her face a little pink and her fingers worrying at her sleeves, before she went up to the stool, placed the hat on her head, and perched there for a moment before the hat called “HUFFLEPUFF!” She put the hat back and ran down to the table on Harry’s right-hand side. He smiled— he was sure Hannah would really fit in in Hufflepuff— she was such a nice girl.

 

Susan Bones went off to Hufflepuff too, and then Terry Boot went off to the Ravenclaws, on Harry’s left-hand side. Mandy Brocklehurst followed him, and Harry nearly went deaf in his left ear when Lavender Brown became a Gryffindor. Millicent Bulstrode was a Slytherin, and so were Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He wondered, perhaps meanly, if the hat could see traits you would develop in the future. Justin Finch-Fetchley went off to sit next to Hannah, and she smiled at him— Harry wondered if they’d sat together on the train after she couldn’t find Harry.

 

Some of the first years, Harry noticed, took much longer to sort than the others— Seamus Finnigan took almost a minute before he was sorted into Gryffindor, where Hannah hadn’t taken any time at all.

 

The muggleborn girl from the train was sorted straight into Gryffindor— Hermione Granger was her name, and from in front of him, Malfoy said something snide about her that Harry couldn’t quite make out.

 

Whispers followed a pale and shaky Neville Longbottom to the stool, although the hat decided fairly quickly that he was a Gryffindor. When the hat called it out, the Gryffindor table was so loud that Harry wondered if they really could make him go deaf.

 

With Malfoy, the hat barely brushed his hair before it shouted out “SLYTHERIN!” and he went to join Crabbe and Goyle.

 

The list of people between Harry and the hat dwindled, until Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson had been sent to Slytherin, and Padma and Parvati Patil, two twin sisters, had been split into different houses— then it was Harry’s turn.

 

He walked up to the stool on legs that were shaking, even though Harry wasn’t very nervous. He picked up the old hat, which had the same texture as an old burlap sack, and slid it onto his head— it went over his eyes and covered his glasses and the bridge of his nose.

 

“Hmm,” said a strange, almost muffled voice in his ear. “A good deal of courage, I see, and a sharp mind for facts and figures— but oh, there’s something.” The hat murmured.

 

“You want to be _important_ , don’t you? Take apart the old and build something new… Best be SLYTHERIN!” The last word sounded outside of Harry’s head, and he pulled off the hat, feeling a bit fuzzy in the head. The Slytherin table was clapping for him, and he walked over to the table on the far right, where Malfoy gestured to the empty space next to him. He supposed that was it, then— he and Draco Malfoy, in the strangest chain of events in Harry’s life, were friends of some sort.

 

Only four people were sorted after Harry- Dean Thomas was a Gryffindor, Lisa Turpin was a Ravenclaw, a rather green looking Ron Weasley went to Gryffindor, and Blaise Zabini, the boy Malfoy couldn’t stand, did become a Slytherin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so fun fact, when i wrote this fic the first time, my thought process was "oh they become friends because harry has terrible self esteem and he listens to him so they're tight" but upon revisiting it, i realized that didn't any damn sense, because everyone just listens to draco malfoy, that's his whole schtick is that crabbe and goyle are his sycophants, so using some fun Godawful Context Clues, hopefully you can figure out what "Draco Malfoy's Top One Reason For Befriending This Rando Kid On The Train" is


	6. Slytherin House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They streamed through the wall into a room so warm Harry nearly forgot they were in the dungeons— a roaring fire welcomed them to the common room. It crackled and leapt in a fireplace that could have easily held an ox. Gathered around it were sumptuous chaise lounges and high-backed chairs embroidered in green velvet, their wooden arms carved in elaborate serpentine patterns. Slightly further away from the fire, there were sprawling leather sofas, big enough, easily, for four or five people to share.

Before the feast began, Professor Dumbledore stood up from his seat at the centre of the high table and called for quiet with a wave of his wand.

 

“I would like to welcome all of you, new students and old, to another year at Hogwarts. Now, I am sure that most of you would like to tuck into your supper, so I have only a few words for you: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” The old man smiled broadly. “Thank you.”

 

“Absolutely raving mad,” Malfoy muttered.

 

Harry was going to say something, but when he turned back to the table, he was shocked— where scarcely a minute before, the golden platters and bowls had been empty, every single one was now piled high with food. There was more food in front of him than he thought he’d eaten in his whole life— there were platters of sliced roast beef and roasted chicken, with enormous tureens of gravy; pork and lamb chops stacked in enormous piles; sausages, bacon and steak, all arranged on one platter; buttered peas, carrots, string beans and sprouts; boiled, roasted, and mashed potatoes; Yorkshire pudding, and strangest of all, dishes of peppermint humbugs. Harry piled his plate with thick slices of roast beef, sausages and mashed potatoes, and as many peas and carrots as he could fit in the empty space.

 

It occurred to him then that people (or Malfoy,) might give him strange looks for eating that much, but he realized as he looked around, that his plate was practically empty compared to his classmates’.

 

“Not hungry?” Malfoy asked him, as he arched one of his pale eyebrows.

 

“No, I guess not,” Harry lied. It was an easier than telling Malfoy (in front of everyone,) that he’d lived on unbuttered toast, single rashers of bacon, leftover chicken and the occasional cold can of soup his whole life. Instead, he tucked in and ate more than he’d ever eaten in his life, even at the Leaky Cauldron

 

When the plates were mostly clean, the last of dinner faded from the plates and the platters, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later, the desserts appeared. There were blocks of ice cream in vivid colours, stacked into strange puzzles; miniature pies and tarts; eclairs and doughnuts; fruit, Jell-O, and four or five different puddings. Harry helped himself to a treacle tart as the people around him started to chat.

 

Malfoy introduced him to Pansy Parkinson, the girl sitting across from them. She was a round-faced girl with a flat sort of nose, and although she smiled at him, Harry got the impression she already didn’t like him.

 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” she said.

 

“Potter’s an orphan,” interjected Malfoy.

 

“Oh, how awful!” Parkinson pressed one hand to her chest, and stretched the other one across the table, neatly avoiding a bowl full of ice cream, to clutch Harry’s hand in sympathy. It hurt.

 

“It’s alright,” Harry assured her. “It was a long time ago.”

 

“Oh, but surely you must miss them,” she demurred.

 

Harry gave her a sheepish little shrug. “I’m afraid I don’t remember them.”

 

At this Parkinson finally stopped crushing Harry’s fingers together, and after a deceptively gentle pat to the top of his hand, she pulled her arm back.

 

“So how did you meet him, Draco?” Parkinson asked.

 

“I was getting my robes fitted,” said Malfoy. “Potter saved me from the needle.”

 

Parkinson giggled a high, almost musical sound. It sounded like she practised to make herself laugh like that. Malfoy gave her a crooked smile that made his face look sharper than it should have— it was a smile that looked very out of place on an eleven-year-old. Harry wondered if Mr. Malfoy smiled like that.

 

The deserts vanished, and the buzz of the students chatter faded away as the headmaster once again waved for quiet.

 

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” Dumbledore said, “there are a few things I must bring to your attention. First and foremost, first years should be aware that the forest along the northern border of the castle grounds is forbidden to all students. Some older students would do well to remember it, as well.” At that, he smiled down at the Gryffindor table.

 

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to remind you all that using magic in the corridors is not permitted. Trials for your house Quidditch teams will be held within the coming weeks, and any student in their second year or beyond may try out if they so choose. Anyone interested in playing for their House team should contact Madam Hooch.”

 

Malfoy muttered something angry and unflattering about the headmaster.

 

“And finally, I must tell you that the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” Dumbledore didn’t smile or laugh as he said this, and it seemed to Harry that he was entirely serious. Maybe Malfoy was right— perhaps old age had cracked the professor’s mind.

 

“Ah, I almost forgot. Before we retire, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. The older Slytherins began to murmur discontentedly, and many of the teachers suddenly looked as though they would have liked to be anywhere else.

 

Dumbledore gave his wand a flick, and a golden ribbon shot out of it, before it lifted itself high in the air and contorted into letters, and then words.

 

“Please pick your favourite tune,” Dumbledore smiled, “and we shall begin!”

 

Harry glanced over at Malfoy and Parkinson, and although they didn’t look happy about it, they did seem to be singing. So Harry joined in as the whole school sang:

 

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,   
Teach us something please,   
Whether we be old and bald   
Or young with scabby knees,   
Our heads could do with filling   
With some interesting stuff,   
For now they’re bare and full of air,   
Dead flies and bits of fluff,   
So teach us things worth knowing,   
Bring back what we’ve forgot,  
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,   
And learn until our brains all rot.”

 

Slytherin house was the first to stop singing, followed by Ravenclaw, then Hufflepuff, until only two red-headed boys at the Gryffindor table were still singing. They had set the school song to a funeral march, and the headmaster used his wand to conduct them through their last, painfully slow lines.

 

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed, once the red-heads had finished, “the magic of song. And now it is time for all of us to retire. Off you go!”

 

“First year Slytherins over here if you please.” A tall, dark-haired girl of about sixteen stood at the end of the Slytherin table closest to the door, waving for their attention.

 

When all of the new Slytherins had gathered around her, she introduced herself. “My name is Gemma Farley, I’m one of the sixth year prefects— it’s my job to solve any problems you have amongst yourselves, and to keep any troublemakers in line.” She smiled. “Tonight I’m going to lead you all down to the common room as a group— please pay attention, you’re going to have to find your own way there from tomorrow on.”

 

Gemma led them out of the Great Hall with the rest of the crowd, and down the corridor, to the enormous double doors, they had used to enter the castle. Harry hadn’t noticed when they came in, but across from the grand marble staircase leading to the upper floors of the castle, there was a simple wooden door. Gemma opened it to reveal another, smaller staircase made of flagstone, which descended into the dungeons of the castle. They went down the stairs, which curved in a twisting spiral that made Harry dizzy. If there had been any landings along the way, Harry was sure he would have never learned the way to his common room. At the bottom of the stairs was a long corridor, like the one in front of the Great Hall.

 

Gemma led the first years down the corridor, past door after door, until she stopped in front of an empty stretch of wall.

 

“The common room is just through here,” she told them. “If you’re ever lost, look for this notch in the wall here,” she pointed to a triangular hole in one of the stones. “The wall will open when you give it the right password— make sure to check the house board because it changes every fortnight. Protego,” she said, and the stones folded themselves outwards, one by one until there was a space in the wall that could have comfortably let in three people arm-in-arm.

 

They streamed through the wall into a room so warm Harry nearly forgot they were in the dungeons— a roaring fire welcomed them to the common room. It crackled and leapt in a fireplace that could have easily held an ox. Gathered around it were sumptuous chaise lounges and high-backed chairs embroidered in green velvet, their wooden arms carved in elaborate serpentine patterns. Slightly further away from the fire, there were sprawling leather sofas, big enough, easily, for four or five people to share. There were beautiful study tables in a wood darker than mahogany, and when Harry looked up, he saw fine-wrought chandeliers hanging from the domed ceiling, their sparkling glass shards reflecting the light so that it danced along the walls in shapes unrecognizable to the human eye. The walls of the room were covered in delicate vines, faces and entire medieval scenes— they had been carved into the stone itself. Interrupting the patterns were high windows that shone with a blue-green light— they looked out, Harry realized with a start, into the waters of the black lake they had sailed over to reach the castle. It was the most magnificent thing Harry had ever seen in his life— if the Great Hall had been astounding, he thought, this room must have been what dreams were made of.   


When the first years had stared long enough, Gemma cleared her throat. “The girls’ dormitories are to the left, and the boys’ are to the right.” She waved to an older boy in a crowd towards the back of the room, and he came bounding over. “This is Terence Higgs, he’s the other sixth-year prefect— he’ll be taking you boys down to your dormitory.”

 

Terence smiled at them and patted Gemma on the shoulder as she left.

 

“Right then, follow me,” he said, and they walked across the common room, to a doorway on the left-hand side. “The dorms are by year,” Terence told them, “and the older you are, the closer you get to the common room— so naturally, you’re at the bottom.” He opened the door and led them down a flight of stairs lit by braziers set into the wall.

 

They followed Terence down to a room at the very lowest level of the school. It held six four-poster beds of the same dark wood as the study tables— they were bedecked in green velvet bed curtains, silver silken cords to tie them back and thick, embroidered eiderdowns. Each bed had a side table and a small bureau.

 

“Your trunk will be at the end of your bed,” said Terence, “just take the one you’re assigned, don’t make me give you detention for fighting over them.”

 

Terence was right— Harry’s trunk was tucked under one of the beds closest to the windows. Circe’s cage was right on top of it, and she batted at the bars impatiently.

 

Harry went over and let her out with a smile. “There you go.”

 

She batted at his fingers until he picked her up, then curled into a ball. Harry set her on the end of the four-poster and started unpacking his trunk. He put all of his robes into the bureau, then he went into the bathroom to change into his pyjamas. Harry’d had to buy himself special sleeping robes because he hadn’t brought any clothes with him when he’d run away from the Dursleys— and besides, he hadn’t wanted to go to school wearing Dudley’s ugly, oversized muggle clothes.

 

Their dormitory’s bathroom was bigger than the Dursley’s living room, and he thought smugly that they would have been green with envy if they could see where Harry was living. He washed his face with water that was warm as soon as he turned on the tap, and then he went back into the dorm proper.

 

Harry crawled into his new bed and set his glasses on the bedside table before he pulled the curtains and wriggled under the blankets. He wanted to read a book, but as soon as his head touched the pillow, he fell fast asleep.

 

—

 

When he woke up the next morning, Harry had the worst case of bedhead he’d ever had in his life— he went to the loo straight away to try and fix it and was there angrily trying to comb it into submission when Malfoy came in.

 

“You’ll never get it to cooperate without hair tonic,” said Malfoy, and wandered off.

 

Harry had never thought of putting anything in his hair, and he felt terribly stupid for not buying soaps or hair products when he’d been living in Diagon Alley. The dorm bathrooms had soap and things, but Harry was sure Malfoy had a whole section of his trunk blocked off for whatever it was that made his hair so perfectly tidy. Harry gave up trying to tame his hair and went back into the dorm with a sigh.

 

“Malfoy tear into you, then?” Blaise Zabini asked him, shrugging into his school robes.

 

“No,” said Harry, who, for the first time in his life, had to worry about not talking to someone because he wasn’t supposed to like them, instead of the other way around.

 

Zabini looked up from his buttons in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re part of his cult.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Harry was angry, and he wasn’t even sure why. He barely knew Malfoy, but he knew what Harry really thought— what he was really like— and had decided he wanted to be friends with him— that counted for something.

 

But Zabini just shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, swung his bookbag over his shoulder and left the dorm.

 

Crabbe and Goyle left just after him, muttering something about breakfast, and then Nott, the last boy in their dorm, went upstairs too. But Harry had a sudden, stubborn need to prove that he and Draco Malfoy could be friends if Harry wanted them to be. It wasn’t anything like Dudley’s horrible gang, they just had things in common. He repeated that to himself like a mantra as he put on his robes and packed his books into his bag.

 

Harry was still sort of upset when Malfoy came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, hair perfectly sorted and his robes already on. For one split second, he looked surprised to see Harry— then he schooled his face into something closer to boredom.

 

“Not hungry again?” Malfoy asked.

 

“I was waiting for you,” Harry said. If he was in for a penny, he was probably already in for a pound. “I thought we could walk up together.”

 

“Oh, I suppose,” Malfoy said. He was trying not to smile, Harry could tell.

 

Harry petted Circe goodbye while Malfoy packed up his books, and even though she was put-out when he left, she settled down at the end of his bed without too much fuss.

 

“Ready, then?” Malfoy asked him when Harry was finished fussing over her.

 

“Sorry,” Harry said with a smile. Malfoy huffed, but he didn’t seem really upset— Harry could still see the hint of a smile around his mouth like he was barely keeping down a grin. Harry didn’t know why he bothered— it wasn’t like he was going to make fun of him for smiling. But he figured Malfoy had his own way of dealing with things, and it probably had a lot to do with the way his father dealt with things.

 

They left the dorm without any more fuss, then up the stairs and into the common room. In the morning light— the morning water? Harry wasn’t sure what the terminology was for lake windows— the common room was still unbelievably beautiful. It really was like something out of Harry’s wildest dreams— a room built, carved and furnished with magic, just for them. He wondered idly what Malfoy’s house must’ve been like if their school was this elaborate.

 

“Did you ever learn about Quidditch?” Malfoy asked him, as they were leaving the common room.

 

“Not really,” said Harry. “All I’ve heard is that you play it on brooms and that it’s the best sport in the world.” And he had heard that when Hannah had mentioned one of her cousins was obsessed.

 

“Well, you do know something then,” Malfoy finally gave him a half smile— more of a smirk, really. “There are seven players, four balls, and three goals.” And he explained the game to Harry as they went up the enormous spiral staircase they’d come down the night before. Malfoy was telling him that he would play seeker for sure when they were in their second year when they reached the Great Hall. Harry had never been allowed to play sports, so he thought he might try it or he might not, but he was really looking forward to watching the school matches— he’d also never been allowed to go to a sports’ game, and they sounded like loads of fun to him.

 

Harry didn’t know whether Malfoy was any good at flying a broom or not, but he must have known absolutely everything about Quidditch— he could recite fifty years of Quidditch World Cup winners from memory.

 

“I went to my first Quidditch game at six,” Malfoy was telling him when they finally reached the Great Hall. Nearly everyone from their year was already eating breakfast, but Crabbe and Goyle had already blocked out a spot in between them for Malfoy. Harry figured he would have to go and find his own seat once they got up to the table, but he realized with a start that the spot Crabbe and Goyle had gotten was big enough for both of them.

 

“D’you want some toast?” Crabbe asked him, as he loaded his own plate for what looked like the second or third time.

 

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Crabbe put three slices of toast on Harry’s plate, and then went back to eating.

 

But Harry was flabbergasted at the amount of food in front of them— he’d thought that the start-of-term feast meant just that— more food than any other day of the year. But the platters in front of them were piled high with eggs— scrambled, fried or otherwise— sausages, rashers of bacon, grilled tomatoes, porridge, bowls of fruit, jams and marmalade, kippers and some foods that Harry had never seen before.

 

Harry found that again, no matter how much he loaded his plate, he didn’t even compare to Malfoy or Nott’s plates, much less Crabbe or Goyle’s. Malfoy didn’t even bother saying anything, he just gave him a strange look.

 

A tall, dark-haired wizard came down from the professors’ table while Harry was eating his eggs, and went down the Slytherin table handing each student a folded piece of parchment.

 

Malfoy leaned over and told him in conspiratorial tones, “That’s our head of house, Professor Snape. He’s a friend of my father’s.”

 

Up close, Professor Snape wasn’t really very tall— his robes billowed when he walked, and it made him look bigger, more intimidating. His hair was greasy, and he had a hook-nose so severe it looked nearly beak-like. He handed Malfoy his schedule with a nasty little smile.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” He drawled.

 

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” Malfoy gave him one of his sharp smiles.

 

Then it was Harry’s turn. The professor turned to him with a sharp look and handed over Harry’s class schedule begrudgingly.

 

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, who was trying to work out why he was looking at him like that. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, adults just didn’t like him, he thought gloomily.

 

When Snape had moved further down the table, Malfoy leaned in and whispered to Harry, "What did you do to Snape?"

 

"Nothing," Harry whispered back. "I've never seen him before."

 

“Well,” said Malfoy slowly, “I’m sure he’ll get over it once he realizes we’re friends.”

 

And that seemed to be that, as far as Malfoy was concerned. The four of them left the Great Hall once he was done with his toast.

 

—

 

There were one-hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts, and all of them had a personality— some moved, some of them had steps that vanished, and others were so narrow you had to walk up them single file. And for almost all of their classes, they had to take three, four or five staircases to reach the classrooms. Their first class was Transfiguration, on the third floor, and they were only on time because Crabbe and Goyle could shove their way through the crowds of other students.

 

Professor McGonagall taught Transfiguration, and she stood watch over the class from a platform at the front of the room. “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she told them, exactly after the bell rang. “If I find anyone neglecting their lessons and endangering other students, they will be removed from my class, and they will not come back. I will not tell you twice.”

 

With that warning out of the way, Professor McGonagall turned her desk into an enormous pig, and then back again, without saying a word. The Slytherins shared the class with the first-year Ravenclaws, who were so impressed they nearly frenzied when McGonagall told them it would be years before they could change a desk into anything. But McGonagall started her lecture and they were all forced to start taking notes or fall behind.

 

Halfway through their class period, Professor McGonagall handed down a box of matches and told them to try and turn their individual matches into needles. Harry proved his theory about reading his schoolbooks early when he was the first one to turn the match silver and pointy, although he couldn’t quite get the needle hole to appear.

 

The professor showed it off to the class, and Harry was caught between being embarrassed and being smug. Not to be outdone, three Ravenclaws got more or less as far as he did, and Malfoy did manage a hole at the end of his match, although he couldn’t make it any sharper.

 

“How did you do that so quickly?” Malfoy asked him, once the class was over. He looked rather put-out that Harry had gotten it before him.

 

“I’ve already read the textbook,” Harry told him. “You have to think about what it looks like while it’s changing.”

 

All Malfoy gave him was a “Hmm,” but he wasn’t angry, at least.

 

After transfiguration came Defense Against The Dark Arts, taught by a nervous young wizard in a purple turban. Professor Quirrell stuttered over every word, which made it difficult to pay attention to what he was teaching them— the absurd amount of garlic he kept in his classroom made it even harder. There were rumours that Quirrell had gone to Romania for a year, had a horrible run-in with a clan of vampires, and had come back covered in garlic— some people even said his turban was stuffed with it. Harry was terribly disappointed by the whole thing, and he told Malfoy so during lunch.

 

“The reason they’ve got Quirrell teaching it is because of the curse,” Malfoy said. “No one can teach the class for more than a year before they get kicked out of the school.”

 

“Most of them die,” one of the older Slytherins told him with a nasty grin.

 

Harry sat there eating his mashed potatoes while Malfoy moved on to arguing with Zabini. They were going at each other over whether or not first years should be able to have their own brooms. Harry got the impression that Zabini didn’t actually care, he just wanted Malfoy to be wrong.

 

“Potter, don't you think we ought to have our own brooms?" Malfoy asks.

 

"If you’ve already got a nice broom, I don’t see why not,” Harry said.

 

"Exactly! Potter gets it. What's the point in having a broom if you can only fly on one of those ratty old things in the shed?" Malfoy glared at Zabini.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated halloween! (ps, since no one figured out my hint from last time: https://i.postimg.cc/RFx3Z9v5/IMG-0882.jpg)


	7. The Potions Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From beside him, Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles threateningly. Harry got the sinking feeling in his stomach that his new friends were about to become exactly like Dudley and his friends, only with magic.
> 
> Weasley and Longbottom pulled out their wands, although they both looked vaguely ill. From behind Harry came a loud “Ahem,” and he turned to see their Head of House standing in front of him. Harry’s stomach felt as though it had just dropped through his whole body.
> 
> “What is going on here?” Professor Snape asked, glaring down his hooked nose as Harry. He felt faint-- this was it. He was going to get expelled from school.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE POTIONS MASTER

 

  
The first years had more empty spots in their schedules than any of the other students-- the older Slytherins grumbled about courseloads and sat at the common room tables with enormous piles of books and sheaf upon sheaf of parchment paper-- but they still had plenty of classes.

 

Aside from Transfiguration, they had Herbology three times a week-- Monday, Wednesday and Friday. They went out to the greenhouses behind the castle, where Professor Sprout, a short, stout witch with greying hair and a sunny smile would teach them how to take care of strange plants and fungi. They had to look up each plant in the textbook beforehand, write down what they did and what they might be used for.

 

Their Charms class was on Tuesday, when they were taught by Professor Flitwick, a tiny little old wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. Malfoy told him that Flitwick had been a champion dueller, before “the muggle lovers in the Ministry shut it all down.” Harry couldn’t quite see it, but he liked Professor Flitwick all the same.

 

There was Astronomy on Wednesday night when they woke up at midnight to climb to one of the towers. They studied the night skies through their telescopes and jotted down notes on which stars they could see, and which planets had moved where. Malfoy’s mother and her whole family (including him,) had been named after constellations, so Draco had quite the advantage over the rest of them when it came to memorizing the names and figuring out which star was which.

 

They had a large break Thursday morning so they could sleep late after Astronomy-- Harry used it to go up to the school library for the first time. It was enormous-- it must have been at least four times as big as Flourish and Blotts-- and there were so many different sections Harry was afraid he might get lost. He checked out five books from Madame Pince, the librarian. She was a severe woman who looked a bit like a vulture, with her sunken cheeks, sallow skin, and long hooked nose.

 

Then came what was easily their most boring class-- History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old when he had fallen asleep in front of the staffroom fire and got up the next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. As ghosts went, Binns hadn’t been around long at all, but as a teacher, he must have held some sort of record-- he’d been teaching at Hogwarts for nearly a hundred years. Binns droned on and on, and while Harry took pages and pages of notes, Malfoy decided halfway through the first class that it wasn’t worth paying attention, and fell asleep on his desk. Harry’d ended up having to give Malfoy his notes, and then he’d given them to Crabbe and Goyle as well when he’d realized that theirs didn’t make any sense.

 

On Friday, they had class with their head of house, Professor Snape, and Harry was determined to keep his head down and his mouth shut-- even if Snape never liked him, at least he wouldn’t hate him.

 

That morning, Harry was busy cutting up a fried egg when a very old, rather scraggly looking owl flew off course and nearly knocked into Malfoy’s elegant eagle-owl. Malfoy’s owl, weighed down as he was by another one of Mrs. Malfoy’s care packages, nearly flew into Harry. It was only his quick reflexes from years of dodging Dudley Dursley’s punches that kept him from a face full of owl talons.

 

“Whose owl is that?” Harry asked once he’d pulled himself out from under the table.

 

“Weasleys’,” grunted one of the older boys. “Bloody menace of a bird-- they ought to put it out of its’ misery.”

 

Malfoy, who was still trying to calm down his furious owl, shot a glare over at the Gryffindor table. “Of course,” he sneered. “Tatty and mad, just like them.”

 

Harry didn’t know exactly what Malfoy’s problem with the Weasleys was, but his best guess was because they’d been fighting for the muggles during the war. Although he’d only been in school for a few days, Harry could already tell that the war was a very touchy subject for the whole school, but especially for their house. There were quite a few Slytherins whose parents, aunts and uncles, and even some grandparents, were in Azkaban because of what they’d done during the war. No one said it out loud, but Harry could draw the lines between the last names of his classmates and the last names of the people in his genealogy books. After he’d met Pansy Parkinson, for instance, Harry had gone back into her family tree, one night before bed, and found that her uncle was serving a life sentence in prison for the people he’d killed during the war-- which explained why she’d asked if he missed his parents. His blood traitor parents, as the older students would say.

 

“Oh, Father’s written to me this time,” Malfoy said, and Harry snapped out of his thoughts.

 

Harry thought of a few things to say, like ‘that’s nice,’ or ‘what does he say?’ but he didn’t think those were quite right, so instead he said, “I’m sure your parents must miss you.”

 

“Of course,” replied Malfoy, although he looked pleased. “In fact, that’s what Father says-- that Mother’s distraught without me there. He’s had to stay home from the ministry all week.”

 

Harry didn’t quite understand what Mr. Malfoy did, but it seemed to involve some combination of going to the Ministry for Magic, talking to the magical Prime Minister, inviting people to his Manor (Harry has had to refrain from asking Malfoy how large his house is at least three times, although he was dying to know,) and doing lots of paperwork.

 

Harry’s eggs were a lost cause after the owl incident, so he pushed his plate away and asked Malfoy “Do you want to walk down?”

 

Malfoy folded up his letter and tucked it back into his mother’s care package before he sighed and stood up. “I suppose we should.”

 

Harry stood up as well, and Crabbe and Goyle followed along after them, as they left the Great Hall and went back down the stairs toward their dorm.

 

Malfoy had them stop into the dorm so he could stow his package in his trunk, so Harry got the chance to say hello to Circe, which helped a bit with his nerves.

 

The Potions classroom was also in the dungeons, only a short ways away from the common room, so the four of them (and most of the other Slytherins in their year,) got there early, and were forced to mill about outside the classroom while they waited for Professor Snape to arrive.

 

While they were waiting, Crabbe asked Harry, “Have you got an extra quill? I forgot mine.”

 

“You could just walk back over to the dorm,” Malfoy snapped. Harry was surprised-- he’d gotten the idea that Malfoy was never short with the two of them.

 

Crabbe looked surprised too. “Sorry,” he muttered.

 

“I have about five in my bag,” Harry said and dug one out before Crabbe could walk back to the common room. “Here.”

 

Malfoy shot him an odd look, and Harry hoped he hadn’t just gotten Malfoy angry with him. He didn’t know if Malfoy was the type who wanted to be the final decision maker, but he did seem like it.

 

But Malfoy didn’t say anything, so Harry just reorganized his books, and slid his bag back onto his shoulder. By the time he was done, the Gryffindors were rounding the corner, chattering loudly.

 

Malfoy seemed to be looking for something, and when he found it-- or them-- in the throng of Gryffindors, he shoved his way through the crowd. Harry followed after him somewhat reluctantly.

 

When he caught up to Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in tow, he was sneering “Did you set that flying rat on us this morning, Weasley? Warrington told me that was an owl, but I told him he was raving.”

 

“Shove off Malfoy,” muttered Weasley, who’d turned nearly as red as his hair.

 

“I don’t think we will. After all,” Malfoy smirked, pointing to Longbottom, who’d just caught up to his friend, “there are only two of you, and four of us. And you owe us for disrupting our breakfast this morning.”

 

From beside him, Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles threateningly. Harry got the sinking feeling in his stomach that his new friends were about to become exactly like Dudley and his friends, only with magic.

 

Weasley and Longbottom pulled out their wands, although they both looked vaguely ill. From behind Harry came a loud “Ahem,” and he turned to see their Head of House standing in front of him. Harry’s stomach felt as though it had just dropped through his whole body.

 

“What is going on here?” Professor Snape asked, glaring down his hooked nose as Harry. He felt faint-- this was it. He was going to get expelled from school. “May I remind you, Mister Longbottom, that wands are to be kept away in the hallways? Or perhaps you believe that the rules do not apply to the famous?”

 

Harry could’ve fallen right over. Malfoy had said that Snape wouldn’t do anything to him once he realized they were friends-- and he’d been right.

 

“Professor, we weren’t doing anything--” Weasley tried to defend himself. Snape cut him off with a glare.

 

“I don’t believe I was talking to you, Mister Weasley. Five points, from both of you, for fighting in the hallway.” Snape snapped. Longbottom opened his mouth to argue. “Be thankful it isn’t more. In.” Snape unlocked the door to the Potions’ classroom with a wave of his hand, and Harry filed into the classroom along with everyone else.

 

They took the seats at the very front, Malfoy in the center, with Harry on his left, and Crabbe and Goyle on his right.

 

Snape swept up to the front of the room once they’d all taken their seats. He produced a roll of parchment from the pocket of his robes and immediately began to call roll. Snape had a surprisingly quiet voice, Harry realized, but they were all silent-- he got the impression that Snape would do worse than take house points if you interrupted him. When he called Harry’s name, Snape’s eyes flicked up for a beat too long, staring at him. Harry rose his hand very neatly, as though his manners might make the professor’s irrational hatred disappear.

 

Once Snape assured they were all there, he set aside the roll. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” he began, his voice nearly a whisper. “You will not wave your wands about, or mangle incantations-- potions requires a dedication and a talent most of you will lack entirely. But for those who wish to learn, and who have the aptitude-- I can teach you the delicate power of substances that creep through the veins, that control the heart and the mind. I will show you that to look into the shimmering fumes of a cauldron is to see glory as it is brewed.”

 

Snape was silent for a moment, to let his speech sink in. His stared them all down, and then, without warning, snapped out, “Longbottom! What would you get if you added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

 

Longbottom looked lost. Beside him, the girl from the train, Granger-- raised her hand so high it looked like it hurt. Harry didn’t know why she bothered-- it seemed like Longbottom was the only person Snape hated more than Harry.

 

“I don’t know,” said Longbottom slowly.

 

Snape sneered. “Indeed-- it seems that despite your celebrity, brawn has won out over brains. Shall we try again?” He asked, with a vicious spark in his eye. Harry had a sneaking suspicion he knew why the professor and Mr. Malfoy were friends. “Where would you look to find a Bezoar, Longbottom?”

 

Granger was now angling herself off of her chair to better show off her raised hand. Malfoy was practically shaking next to him-- he, Crabbe and Goyle were laughing so hard they were nearly crying. Even Harry was having a hard time not laughing when Granger began waving her hand back and forth frantically, as though it pained her not to say anything.

 

“The medicine cabinet,” said Longbottom.

 

“Wrong,” said Snape, and although he hadn’t raised his voice at all, Harry would’ve called it a snarl if he had. “Mister Potter,” Snape said, suddenly turning about to face him, “shall we see if you know the difference between monkswood and wolfsbane?”

 

Harry was painfully grateful he’d read his potions textbook cover to cover. “They’re the same plant, professor-- they call aconite wolfsbane because it affects werewolves.”

 

Snape looked at him for a beat. “...Correct. Perhaps, Longbottom, if you opened your book, you could answer a question. Five points to Slytherin. Now, today you will be brewing a simple healing draft, strong enough only to cure boils. As such, this will not be terribly difficult. You will be split into pairs, based on seating arrangements. For your own sake, I hope you chose your partner well.”

 

Although Harry thought Professor Snape was terrifying, he liked potions. He’d enjoyed the textbook, and once he had ingredients in his hands, he just had to focus on preparing them right. It wasn’t any more stressful than frying eggs under his aunt’s watch had been, and Malfoy was very good at it. Harry weighed their dried nettles and crushed up the snake fangs, while Malfoy stewed their horned slugs (Harry had assumed that Malfoy would make him do that, rather than risk ruining his hair, but he’d done it without even asking, much less complaining.) Snape swept around the room, his robes billowing out behind him, and peered over their shoulders. When he reached their table, he took one look at Malfoy’s slugs and cleared his throat to get the class’ attention.

 

“If you’ll look at the way Mister Malfoy has stewed his slugs, you’ll see that he has kept them from boiling, rather than encouraging it, against my instructions.” He glared at Longbottom.

 

Harry glanced over and realized a moment too late that Longbottom had just thrown in his porcupine quills, too angry to take the cauldron off of the heat first. The potion melted the cauldron it was in, bubbling and spitting like acid as it spread across the floor. The whole class started climbing on top of their stools, trying to keep their feet out of the green ooze that was eating Weasley’s shoes. Both Weasley and Longbottom were sprouting angry red boils all over their arms, legs, and feet, while Professor Snape looked as though he might spit acid.

 

“Idiot boy!” He vanished the encroaching potion and the smoldering remains of their cauldron. “You can’t open the textbook or read the instructions-- tell me, Longbottom, you can read, can’t you?”

 

Longbottom nodded angrily, but Harry could see that there were tears in his eyes, and smaller boils were popping up all over his nose.

 

Snape turned to Granger. “Take them to the hospital wing,” he spat.

 

The rest of the class quickly climbed down off of their stools and went back to what they’d been doing. At the end of class, Snape declared that Harry and Malfoy’s potion was nearly perfect, and blamed Longbottom for interrupting them. Harry got the sense that he would’ve gotten the same treatment as Longbottom if it hadn’t been for Malfoy.

 

They had lunch after double-potions, although Harry couldn’t say he was exactly hungry after spending the whole morning mixing together snake fangs and slugs. It didn’t affect Crabbe and Goyle in the slightest, though-- they each had two helpings of everything.

 

They went back to the common room after lunch since they had a free period that afternoon. Harry had been planning on spending it in the library, but Malfoy made him go and drop his bag in the dorm.

 

“We’re going to play chess,” Malfoy told him, as he pulled out an ornate set from his trunk. “I’ve been dying for a game-- Crabbe and Goyle are hopeless-- but I think we’ll be about evenly matched.”

 

Harry was sure that was the nicest compliment Malfoy thought he could give someone. The only problem was… “I don’t know how to play,” Harry told him.

 

Malfoy turned. “You don’t know how to play? Even muggles have chess, Potter. I know you just want to sneak off to the library.” And with that, he dragged him back up to the common room.

 

“Malfoy, I’m serious! I’d play it with you, but I don’t know how.” Harry insisted while Malfoy set up the board.

 

Malfoy told the chess pieces, “Spread yourselves out,” and Harry tried not to stare. To Harry, he said, “Then you’re going to learn.”

 

Malfoy had him stand up and take the white side of the board. “There,” he drawled. “White always moves first, so you’ve got the advantage-- for now. Each side has a king and a queen, two bishops, two knights, two castles, and eight peasants. Every piece other than the king is your army-- you use them to keep the opposing side away from your king. The object of the game is to kidnap the king-- to trap him so your opponent has no other moves.”

 

Harry nodded to show he was listening.

 

“Peasants can move two spaces on their first move, then one after that…”


	8. Broomsticks and Bedlam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mhm,” said Malfoy, before he wandered into the bathroom. Harry wasn’t offended— he’d found out their first Saturday at school that Malfoy was normally vicious in the morning. He’d tried to hex Zabini because he’d walked into him— in fact, Harry was the only one he even bothered acknowledging until after he’d eaten breakfast. Harry was sort of flattered, in a strange way. He was also sort of horrified that that was his friend.

CHAPTER EIGHT: BROOMSTICKS AND BEDLAM

 

The strangest part of going to Hogwarts wasn’t the magic, or the stern professors or all of the wonderfully bizarre things that everyone else thought were mundane. No, the strangest part of Hogwarts was having a best friend.

 

Harry had daydreamed about having friends his whole life— other quiet boys who would read books with him, or smiling girls who would sneak him a lunch that their mum had made especially for Harry. But it had never happened— Harry wondered if all the muggles he had gone to school with could tell Harry was different. Probably, he thought.

 

Harry was still different at Hogwarts, but Malfoy seemed to think it was a good different— a fun, smart different. Harry had worried about following Malfoy everywhere— and he did— but Malfoy genuinely liked him. They spent most of their time together, and even when Harry had no idea what Malfoy was talking about, usually he could ask and Malfoy would really enjoy explaining it to him.

 

Malfoy was wickedly funny, as well— even when Harry didn’t want to laugh at Malfoy’s jokes, he couldn’t help himself.

 

Which was sort of the problem— Harry usually didn’t want to laugh at Malfoy’s jokes. He was a bully, and most of his jokes were at the expense of someone else. Usually that someone eerily reminded Harry of himself. And when Malfoy wasn’t directly making someone miserable, he had ways to do it indirectly— two ways, to be specific, and their names were Crabbe and Goyle. They would trip and shove people or corner them for Malfoy, who already knew quite a few spells he wasn’t supposed to— mostly hexes, but a few minor curses, as well.

 

Malfoy talked about his father incessantly, and Harry was sure Mr Malfoy was the one who’d taught Draco the curses. That was something else— Harry wasn’t sure Malfoy’s parents would let him be friends with Harry if they knew. But Malfoy refused to hear a word against Harry— he was strangely loyal. They were in the library one afternoon, during the second week of classes, when a second-year Ravenclaw called Harry “a dirty half-blood—” Malfoy sent him out of the library holding back tears. And he hexed him. Later Malfoy told him that no one was allowed to talk to his friends like that, and Harry was terribly happy for the rest of the day, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

 

Malfoy was nothing like the friends Harry had daydreamed about having, and he was the polar opposite of Hannah Abbott, who had taken to avoiding Harry like the plague since school started— but Harry found that not being lonely was the best feeling in the world, even when Malfoy wouldn’t stop talking, and Harry almost wanted to throttle him. They did their homework together, they played chess together, and Malfoy already had plans to get Harry into Quidditch, so they could both be on the house team their second year.

 

Those plans started the second Tuesday of classes when they came back from Charms to find a notice pinned up on the common board— their flying lessons would begin that Thursday, and the first-year Slytherins all discussed them eagerly on their way up to lunch.

 

Harry was fairly nervous— he wanted to be good at flying, but he wasn’t so sure he would be— he’d never been allowed to play muggle sports, and it seemed to be Malfoy’s favourite thing in the world. He couldn’t botch up his only friendship by falling off of his broom— Harry would never live that down, he was sure of it.

 

But he was also sure he’d never live it down if he told Malfoy he was nervous, so he went to the library by himself on Thursday morning, sat at the table furthest from the doors, and read three books about flying techniques, all written for muggleborns. He didn’t know many muggleborns, admittedly, but something about the thought of them made Harry’s stomach churn, and mostly when he thought of them, he thought of Hermione Granger waving her hand about like a lunatic, or of Dudley Dursley and his gang beating Harry with sticks at age eight. So Harry made sure no one ever saw him reading a book written for muggleborns, and he only returned the books himself because he was sure Madame Pince would hunt him down if he didn’t.

 

He made it back to the dorm before Malfoy woke up, and sat on his bed to read the book he’d picked up before he left the library— it was on second-year charms, and it was very interesting.

 

“Good morning,” he said to Malfoy when he woke up at a quarter ‘til eleven.

 

“Mhm,” said Malfoy, before he wandered into the bathroom. Harry wasn’t offended— he’d found out their first Saturday at school that Malfoy was normally vicious in the morning. He’d tried to hex Zabini because he’d walked into him— in fact, Harry was the only one he even bothered acknowledging until after he’d eaten breakfast. Harry was sort of flattered, in a strange way. He was also sort of horrified that that was his friend.

 

Malfoy wandered out twenty minutes later, his hair unmovable as always, and his robes already on.

 

“Have you eaten yet?” Malfoy asked him, “or did you just sit in the library starving yourself all morning?”

 

Harry tried not to sputter— he’d known Malfoy had noticed when Harry didn’t eat very much, but he hadn’t thought he’d say anything. Why not? He asked himself— after all, everyone else was a target for Malfoy’s sharp eyes, all their flaws picked apart for his jokes. “I don’t—” Harry started to say.

 

Malfoy cut him off. “I know you do. I know the muggles are savages, but you’re not a muggle, and you don’t even live with them anymore— eat some more, would you?” And with that, he picked up his bag and left the room, not even checking to see if Harry was following behind him. Harry sat on his bed, startled and confused about why Malfoy cared if he ate or not when he ducked back in.

 

“Are you coming or not?” Malfoy asked, with an impatient wave of his hand. “We haven’t got all day, Potter! Today’s flying lessons, if you’ve forgotten. Chop-chop!”

 

Harry scrambled out of bed and into his shoes before he followed Malfoy up the stairs.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered.

 

Malfoy waved his hand at him again, although Harry had no clue what it was supposed to mean. Did it mean he was forgiven? It was alright? Hurry up? Harry had never realized having friends would be so complicated.

 

—

 

Harry ate a big breakfast (nearly lunch,) although Malfoy didn’t mention Harry’s eating again. He was engrossed in arguing with Zabini again, but Harry had heard something in Malfoy’s voice, something that made him feel small and strange again— like a freak. And Harry would have given anything to never feel like that again, so he steadfastly ignored how he felt sort of ill after eating three fried eggs and went off to History of Magic with the rest of the first-year Slytherins.

 

Professor Binns could bore anyone to tears, Harry thought, but he liked taking notes, and their textbook had been one of Harry’s favourite books of the summer— he’d gone back and re-read more than a few sections, as he tried to figure it all out. So he re-read the textbook and wrote down what Binns said only when it wasn’t in the textbook. Malfoy solved the boredom problem by doodling on the margins of his parchment— he drew the Weasley family as rats who scurried out of an old, ramshackle house, and then he drew them all hiding under the robes of Longbottom’s grandmother.

 

Malfoy hated Longbottom. Harry didn’t know if it was because he was “The Boy Who Lived,” or because he hadn’t wanted to be Malfoy’s friend, or because Longbottom had picked Weasley over him in front of their whole year, but whatever the reason, Malfoy hated the both of them, and after he’d found that Professor Snape hated Longbottom as well, he’d decided that it was his job to make Longbottom and Weasley miserable.

 

Which wasn’t to say that Harry liked either of them— there was still a horrible, angry thing somewhere in Harry’s stomach that blamed Neville Longbottom for all the horrible things he’d had to live through with the Dursleys— but he didn’t think it was funny when Malfoy called Weasley a rat or a weasel or any other kind of rodent— he didn’t think it was funny when Malfoy looked down his nose at Weasley’s tatty clothes and dirty nose, either. Harry had a vault full of gold, sure, but he’d been wearing hand-me-downs when he’d met Malfoy, and he’d had broken glasses and dirty trainers nearly his whole life. But he never said anything to Malfoy because Malfoy had more money at eleven than half of Britain would ever have, and so he would never understand what it was like to go hungry or to go to bed dirty and cold.

 

Harry shook himself— he was sure Weasley didn’t go to bed dirty or cold, either. They were wizards— and Weasley’s parents had been disowned for being blood traitors. _Why do you care?_ Harry thought to himself. _Weasley hates you— just yesterday he called you a flunky._ It was easy, Harry thought, to forget that most of the Gryffindors’ parents had killed people in the war as well— except they hadn’t gone to Azkaban, they’d smiled and sent orphans off to live with muggles. Sent Harry off to live with muggles. It’d only been a week, and Harry’d already caught himself feeling sorry for the boy who’d ruined his whole life— Malfoy wasn’t a bully, he was just right. And that was that.

 

—

 

After History of Magic, they had their first flying lesson, which Malfoy had been looking forward to since their first hour at Hogwarts.

 

“Not,” as he said, “that I need to be taught how to fly, but I miss flying— even if it’s on the school brooms,” he sneered, as though those brooms were worse than the mud on his boots.

 

They were making their way down the front steps of the school, out to the grounds. It was the first time Harry had been outside the castle since they’d started classes, and in the daytime, he could see that the front lawn of the school sloped and arched nearly as far as the eye could see— Harry suddenly understood why the groundskeeper was so enormous.

 

Their lesson was on a smooth, flat lawn on side of the grounds opposite to the forbidden forest. There were twenty brooms laid out on the grass, waiting for them, and since the Slytherins were early, they waited for the Gryffindors by figuring out which of the school brooms were the best— or, as Malfoy put it, “Even useable.”

 

Harry let Malfoy pick his broom for him because he honestly couldn’t tell what the difference between them was— they all looked ancient, as though they’d been made in the eighteen-hundreds or something. They looked nothing like the smooth, sleek broomsticks Harry had seen in Diagon Alley, and he could understand why Malfoy was so upset— he wasn’t sure they would even hold a person, much less fly.

 

The Gryffindors just managed to turn up before their flying instructor— Madam Hooch followed right after Longbottom and Weasley, and like Professor Snape, what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in presence. She had short, spiky grey hair and yellow, hawk-like eyes that made Harry feel very small. She didn’t bother introducing herself— they all knew who she was— Madam Hooch was something of a legend at Hogwarts.

 

“What are you all standing about for? Go on, pick a broomstick, chop chop!” She barked.

 

Upon closer inspection, the broom Malfoy had picked out for him was nicer than the brooms the Gryffindors had gotten— some of theirs were missing bristles or had chips in the wood.

 

Madam Hooch moved to the front of the two lines, and once she was sure she had their attention, she set her own broom down on the grass. Then, she extended her right hand over the broom. “When I tell you,” she called, “you will mirror my position, and say ‘Up!’ Now… up!” With that, her broom jumped back into her hand.

 

From around him came a chorus of ‘Up!’s. Harry’s broom came up to his waist, then nearly flopped to the ground— he caught it before the broom could change its’ mind. Beside him, Malfoy had no such problem— his broom jumped straight into his hand. Many of the Slytherins were having better luck with their brooms than the Gryffindors were— whether it was because the Slytherins had hand-picked their brooms, or simply because they’d had more practice, Harry couldn’t say.

 

Once all twenty brooms had been wrangled into twenty hands, Madam Hooch coughed loudly to grab their attention.

 

“Now you’re going to mount your broom— I’m sure some of you think you already know how to handle a broom perfectly, but I have seldom found a student whose grip was perfect so I will be coming about to inspect your hold.” She barked.

 

Harry had to tell himself all over again not to be nervous. He swung one leg over his broom and kept his hands together at the end of the handle.

 

“Your grip’s too tight,” Madam Hooch told him. “You’ve got to put one hand lower than the other, there you go. Good.”

 

When Harry adjusted his grip, she went down the line and told Malfoy he had the wrong hand on the handle.

 

To which Malfoy said, “Professor, I’ve been holding my broom like this my entire life. I’ve never fallen off.”

 

“Then you’ve been doing it wrong your entire life,” Madam Hooch told him matter-of-factly. “And you’re never going to get any better if you don’t fix it now. There you go.”

 

Malfoy did as she said, but the tops of his ears were bright red, and while Weasley and Longbottom had a good laugh about it, Harry was sure Malfoy would be off to hex someone after their lesson.

 

When Madam Hooch was sure everyone would be staying on their brooms, she went back up to the front of the lines and pulled out a silver whistle from under the collar of her robes. “When I blow the whistle, you’ll kick off from the ground, rise about a meter off the ground, and touch back down. On my whistle, three— two—”

 

But Longbottom kicked off too early, either from nerves or a need to show off, and rather than hover in the air, his broom started to climb and climb into the air. The higher the broom got, the more it began to shake— it started to thrash like a wild animal, trying to buck Longbottom off of it. Longbottom stubbornly clung to it, even as Madam Hooch shouted at him to come back down.

 

“Mr Longbottom! You must come back down this instance!” To punctuate that, she blew her whistle very sharply.

 

But Longbottom didn’t come down— his broom suddenly turned to the left and flew directly towards the wall of the castle. It slammed into the wall, hard, and it was only Longbottom’s death grip on the handle that kept him on the broom. He gave it a firm yank in the other direction, away from the wall, and the broom bucked, like a horse would, before it turned over. Longbottom hung in the air for a minute, before he somehow managed to pull himself back onto the broom, and forced it to come plummeting down to the earth. At the very last second, he pulled the broom up, and it shook him off onto the ground before it took off again.

 

Beside him, Harry could feel Malfoy shaking with anger— Harry thought he might hurt himself. He didn’t need to be angry, Harry felt like telling him— Madam Hooch had rounded on Longbottom, and she looked angrier than a wet cat. She pulled him up off of the ground with a sharp hand around his arm.

 

“Of all the head-strong, foolish students I’ve ever seen, I’ve never— You’re off to the Deputy Headmistress this instant!” Madame Hooch shook one long finger at the rest of them. “None of you move a muscle, or I’ll have you out on your ear before you can say ‘Quidditch.’” And with that, she left them and marched Longbottom up to the school.

 

Some of the Gryffindors craned their necks to try and watch them reach the school. Harry didn’t bother— if Neville Longbottom got expelled, he was pretty sure they were all going to hear about it.

 

Malfoy was still so angry he could barely talk. “‘Oh look at me, I’m a useless lump who can’t do anything on the ground, but suddenly I can pull a broom out of a Wronski Feint!’”

 

“Maybe he’ll be expelled,” Harry said, trying to cheer Malfoy up.

 

“And maybe I’ll just grow wings.” Malfoy snapped.

 

Harry blinked. Malfoy had never said a mean word to him— he hadn’t realized how much he hated Longbottom. He refused to consider that it was anything else— Malfoy was not getting sick of him, no matter what the niggling voice in the back of his mind said.

 

—

 

Longbottom was not, in fact, expelled, as far as Harry could tell. When they went up to the Great Hall for dinner, Malfoy spotted him sitting next to Weasley as though nothing was wrong at all. Malfoy stalked across the Great Hall, Crabbe and Goyle already crossing their arms menacingly, while Harry was sort of along for the ride.

 

“Having a last meal before they send you back to Granny dearest?” Malfoy sneered, looking down his nose at Longbottom. “Think she’ll keep you from going outside at all this time?”

 

“Don’t talk about my grandmother, Malfoy,” said Longbottom, who looked very angry himself.

 

“Or you’ll do what, exactly? Challenge me to a duel?” Malfoy laughed. It was one of his fake laughs, the kind that Harry was sure he’d copied from his father.

 

“Sure he will,” piped up Weasley, from his spot next to Longbottom. “I’ll be his second. Who’s yours?” He jutted out his chin the way that Longbottom did when he was trying to be impressive— it didn’t work any better on Weasley. Harry wondered if he’d start picking up Malfoy’s habits as well, or if Longbottom and Weasley were doing it intentionally, like some sort of weird gang symbol.

 

“Potter,” said Malfoy, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. He had no idea how to duel, but he didn’t dare say anything in front of Weasley and Longbottom. “Midnight all right?” He asked, suddenly conversational. “We’ll go to the trophy room— that’s always unlocked.”

 

Harry got the strange feeling that it didn’t matter he didn’t know how to duel— something in Malfoy’s voice told him that there wouldn’t be a duel at all.

 

They turned away from the Gryffindor table and went to go and eat dinner. Once they were set up at the Slytherin table, Harry leaned in towards Malfoy’s ear, and asked conspiratorially, “Which teacher are you thinking of?”

 

Malfoy turned to look at him and smirked. “Snape, of course. He hates Longbottom.”

 

Harry’s stomach did a strange flip-flop. Did it make him a bad person if he just sat and watched as Malfoy got them in trouble? He didn’t know, but he was happy that he and Malfoy had a secret between the two of them, and that definitely made him guilty.

 

They left Crabbe and Goyle on their third helpings of dinner and went down to the dungeons early. They went down to the common room, where Malfoy asked him to take out some parchment.

 

“Your handwriting looks more like Weasley’s,” he explained.

 

“Weasley’s handwriting is awful,” Harry said. “Mine isn’t bad at all.”

 

Malfoy arched one blonde eyebrow at him.

 

“Is it really that bad?” Harry asked.

 

“Yes, but I’ll get you writing primer later,” said Malfoy. “Start taking this down: _‘Malfoy, you’ve made your last crack about my mum… Neville and I’ll be the trophy room at midnight, and if you aren’t a coward we’ll have it out.’_ ”

 

Harry did as he was told, and tried to tell himself he was absolutely not becoming a bully. It didn’t make him feel any better.

 

Once he was done, he handed it off to Malfoy, who ripped up the edges a bit and folded it in half. Then they left the common room and headed off to Professor Snape’s office.

 

Malfoy knocked three times, and after the third knock, Professor Snape swung open the door. “Yes, Mister Malfoy?” He asked.

 

“Professor, Harry and I were just coming back from dinner when Weasley slipped this into my pocket. He’s going to be out after hours, casting spells around valuable school property.” Malfoy really played it up, Harry thought. If it had been any other student, Snape wouldn’t have bought it— in fact, he was pretty sure he didn’t buy it, he just wanted to give Longbottom detention.

 

“Very well, Mister Malfoy. You and Mister Potter may go back to your dormitory now— I’ll deal with Mister Weasley and Mister Longbottom.” Snape tucked the forged note into his pocket and closed his office door behind him.

 

“Thank you, sir,” said Malfoy, uncharacteristically respectful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this fic is now at exactly 32,000 words, according to google docs-- which is almost twice as long as it was originally (like 17k)


	9. The Feud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October at Hogwarts came with longer essays, more homework, and best of all, more complicated spells. Professor McGonagall let them start transfiguring things bigger than a match, Professor Snape stopped making them use slugs in every potion, and Professor Flitwick started teaching them some useful charms.

CHAPTER NINE: THE FEUD

 

  
Malfoy was terribly smug the next morning— between being caught by Snape and his stunt with the broom, Malfoy was sure Longbottom would be thrown out on his ear. To his shock and horror (and Harry’s very quiet, very guilty relief,) Longbottom and Weasley wandered into breakfast looking tired but mostly upbeat and helped themselves to breakfast while Malfoy shot nasty looks at them over Crabbe’s shoulder.

 

“How could he have possibly gotten out of it?” Malfoy muttered under his breath.

 

“He probably didn’t go… I’m sure his grandmother never taught him any duelling spells. He just wanted to look tough for Weasley,” said Harry. He did not think of who else that sounded like.

 

It made Malfoy feel a little better, though— he perked up enough to eat breakfast, instead of stabbing his eggs like they’d insulted his mother.

 

—

 

The rest of the week was fairly quiet, and Harry was relieved— he didn’t want to act the way that Malfoy did. Being friends was fine, but he wasn’t that sort of person. And then he felt guilty for not being that sort of person, which was ridiculous. As long as he was involved, he felt terrible, no matter what, so he’d really rather that Malfoy leave him out of it, thank you very much.

 

Besides, Harry had much more interesting things to worry about than whether or not Longbottom and Weasley got in trouble— he had the Hogwarts library right there, and even if Madam Pince didn’t like him, she had stopped threatening him when he checked out his books, which he thought was a step in the right direction.

 

So Harry studied and took out books on anything and everything that sounded interesting to him. The best books were the ones he couldn’t understand because that meant that he needed background reading to decipher what they meant— it was a great way to branch out into the different sections of the library, and he was learning in leaps and bounds.

 

Most of Harry’s professors seemed to like him, and even if they didn’t, all of the assignments they handed back to him had comments like, “Fantastic understanding of the reading material, keep up the good work,” or “I see you did additional research into the topic, very good,” or the best of all, “I wish all of your peers put this much thought into their assignments, well done.” When he thought of the Dursleys, it was with a smug smile— he wasn’t stupid, or a freak, or whatever else they might’ve called him over the years— Harry was a fantastic student, and he was going to be an even better wizard by the time he graduated.

 

By the end of the week, Harry loved Hogwarts, maybe more than he had ever loved anything else.

 

Of course, Malfoy’s feud with Longbottom couldn’t rest long enough to let him enjoy it.

 

They had just sat down to eat breakfast— the Monday after Malfoy’s failed attempt to get Longbottom expelled— when Longbottom’s owl brought him a very long, very broom like package, wrapped in brown paper. Malfoy looked as though he might explode. Malfoy wanted to bring his own broom to Hogwarts more than he wanted anything else— that Longbottom got to bend the rules, and he didn’t? Harry could see it was more than he could stand.

 

With a quiet sigh, Harry took two pieces of toast, and quickly ate them, unbuttered, before Malfoy could find an opportunity to harass Longbottom. It was a good thing, too, because Weasley ushered Longbottom out of the Great Hall shortly afterwards. Malfoy followed close behind, Crabbe, Goyle and Harry all in tow.

 

Harry wondered longingly if he’d be missed if he just snuck off to the library.

 

Crabbe and Goyle stood in front of the stairs, blocking the way as Malfoy confronted Longbottom and Weasley.

 

“That’s a broom,” said Malfoy, accusatorially. “You’ll really get it this time, Longbottom— or have you forgotten that we aren’t allowed to have them? Suppose you think it doesn’t apply to you, then?”

 

“It’s not just a broom,” said Weasley smugly. “It’s a Nimbus Two Thousand. You’ve got a what, Malfoy? A Comet Two Sixty? Comets look really flashy, but they just don’t compare with a Nimbus.”

 

Harry couldn’t help himself— Malfoy had been banging on about wanting a broom since the first moment he met him, and it was completely unfair that Longbottom (Longbottom who got him locked in a closet for ten years through sheer dumb luck,) got the best one possible when Harry’s best friend had to fly the dangerous old things they kept in the Quidditch shed.

 

“How would you know?” Harry asked Weasley, incredulously. He arched one eyebrow, the way that Malfoy did, and didn’t think a bloody thing while he did it. “You couldn’t afford one of the twigs.”

 

Weasley began to get red in the face, the way he did whenever someone brought up his family’s money problems. Harry felt awful and he didn’t want to— he really couldn’t win.

 

Thankfully, before Weasley could hex him or anything, Professor Flitwick came along, likely on his way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

 

“I hope you aren’t arguing, boys,” he tutted.

 

“Longbottom has a broom, professor,” Malfoy said, as though that was the worst crime he could think of.

 

“Oh yes, Minerva did mention it— special circumstances and all. What model is it, Longbottom?”

 

Malfoy looked like his jaw would be on the floor, if it could be.

 

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Longbottom. “We were just on our way to test it out.”

 

“Oh, don’t let me stop you… off you go, boys,” Professor Flitwick went into the great hall with a wave to Longbottom and Weasley.

 

And with that they went up the stairs to Gryffindor tower, leaving Harry with a confused Crabbe and Goyle, and a murderous Malfoy.

 

They went back to the Great Hall, and while Malfoy did eat breakfast, when Harry watched him, he could see that there was a certain fire in his eyes that hadn’t been there before— he had no idea what schemes Malfoy was dreaming up, but he knew that he didn’t want to be involved— and that he probably would be anyway.

 

Harry steadfastly didn’t focus on Malfoy’s angry scribbling during Transfiguration, and instead tried to take his notes using neater handwriting— Malfoy’s quip about his handwriting had been bothering him since he said it. Once he really looked, he had noticed that Malfoy’s handwriting was beautiful— Harry was sure his parents had made him take lessons because no one’s handwriting could naturally be that evenly spaced, with each letter the same size. It was probably strange that Harry paid that much attention to it, but Malfoy had brought up his handwriting in the first place, and Harry had no idea how to bring it up again without making it clear Malfoy had made him self-conscious.

 

—

 

October at Hogwarts came with longer essays, more homework, and best of all, more complicated spells. Professor McGonagall let them start transfiguring things bigger than a match, Professor Snape stopped making them use slugs in every potion, and Professor Flitwick started teaching them some useful charms.

 

Charms was Harry’s best subject— he didn’t know if it was because he’d already read the textbook cover-to-cover twice, or if he was just good at it, but Professor Flitwick handed back all of his assignments with the highest praises, and little notes of encouragement written in the margins. Naturally, that meant Harry had to study even more for Charms— he couldn’t disappoint any of his professors, especially the nice ones.

 

It helped that Malfoy was almost as determined to do well in Charms as Harry was— charms built the foundations for duelling spells, curses, hexes and just about every other offensive spell. At the beginning of the year, Malfoy had told him that Professor Flitwick had been a master duellist, and so Harry had assumed that he wanted to well so he could wheedle duelling lessons out of Flitwick— but when Harry asked Malfoy about it, he seemed almost offended.

 

“Why would I want Flitwick to teach me?” He asked, taking one of Harry’s rooks with his knight. “He used to be one of the best, but he’s terribly old now— and my father’s forgotten more curses than any of the teachers ever knew,” Malfoy smirked. “Oh, by the way? Checkmate.”

 

But Harry wasn’t paying attention to their chess game any longer. “Malfoy,” he asked slowly, “what does your father actually do?”

 

“What do you mean?” Malfoy asked.

 

“For work, I mean,” Harry said.

 

“Oh, that. I keep forgetting you don’t know. Father’s in the Wizengamot. Go and straighten yourselves out,” Malfoy said to the chess pieces. When Harry didn’t say anything, Malfoy sighed. “And you don’t know what that is either. Start another game and I’ll tell you.”

 

Harry moved out one of his pawns and waited.

 

Malfoy moved out the pawn opposite his and said, “the Wizengamot’s what we call the house of lords— they changed the name in the eighteen-forties or something when they started letting people in ‘for merit.’”

 

Harry moved another pawn and looked up at Malfoy again.

 

One pawn took the other. “The Sacred-Twenty-Eight— you know what that is, don’t you?”

 

When Harry nodded and moved out another pawn, Malfoy kept going.

 

“The Sacred-Twenty-Eight were the original, landowning families. They all have— or had— dukedoms, or earldoms, or some sort of title.” He waved a dismissive hand and then moved out another pawn. “Each parcel of land came with a certain number of seats in the Wizengamot, based on how many wizards lived in that county. A lot of the actual land reverted back to the Ministry, or just to the tenants, but the seats only transfer if they’re left to you in a will, or you’re the next in line. They mostly stayed in the same family, or you’d trade one or two through marriage— but once the wars started, the seats started really moving. The older siblings died, the younger siblings were already married— the bigger families got more seats, the smaller ones lost them. There are a hundred and fifty seats— Father has thirty-five.”

 

“How many people are there in the Wizengamot?” Harry asked.

 

“Fifty? Fifty-one?” Malfoy waved his hand again. “It’s your move,” he reminded Harry.

 

“Oh, sorry,” he said and pushed his bishop halfway across the board. “So what happens if say… someone can’t use their seats?” Harry asked— had his father left him a seat or two, or had it been stripped away with Harry’s parents? Or maybe he hadn’t had any at all.

 

Harry could see the same wheels turning in Malfoy’s mind. “They go to next of kin… or a legal guardian.”

 

For a sudden, terrifying moment, Harry imagined Vernon Dursley showing up at the Wizengamot— but that was ridiculous. There was no way they’d even tell a muggle about the wizarding government. Maybe there was someone else who was Harry’s magic legal guardian?

 

“So you can’t lose your seats?” Harry asked.

 

“No,” said Malfoy, “you can only give them to someone else. Even if you go to Azkaban, they’ll still be yours, you just have to vote through someone else— they call it voting by proxy.”

 

“Your move,” Harry said, at a loss for anything else to say. He really wanted to go up to the library, take out books and books about the government, but the library was closed already.

 

 

—

 

Harry went up to the library early the next morning, eager to learn more about the wizarding government.

 

He took a seat at one of the back tables, the one he’d started sitting at whenever Malfoy wasn’t with him. Harry was starting to think of it as ‘his’ table. You couldn’t hear anything from the outside of the library, or anything from most of the inside of the library, for that matter. It was perfect for what Harry wanted that morning— he piled twelve books on the table and got to work. He jotted down notes on everything— Harry didn’t want to forget anything, so he had piles and piles of parchment in his trunk, most of it unrelated to school work.

 

Malfoy had done a good job describing the government— but Lord Malfoy didn’t just have thirty-five seats in the Wizengamot because of the wars— the Malfoys had been lying and stealing and marrying their way into more seats since before Draco’s great-grandfather was born. One of the books Harry found was about political movements after the war— even though Malfoy’s father claimed he hadn’t followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, apparently, everyone knew that he was the bulwark standing against post-war 'progress,' and that had kept the other death-eaters from turning on him. There were other people on the Wizengamot who voted against more ‘muggle-friendly’ measures— but Lord Malfoy (a name that felt strange, even in Harry’s head,) controlled nearly a third of all the seats, and that meant if the other side wasn’t in perfect agreement, he would usually have the deciding vote on a new bill.

 

It made Harry sort of dizzy to realize that his best friend wasn’t just richer than a king, but that he’d be nearly controlling the government as an adult. It explained why all the other Slytherins were so very careful around Draco, and why it had been such a big deal when Longbottom had embarrassed Malfoy in front of their whole year.

 

It must have been a strange thing to grow up with, Harry thought— Malfoy was an only child, so he would have to marry someone else for Wizengamot seats, run his family’s land and estate, manage their money— Draco really needed to do well in school, nearly more-so than Harry did, so he’d know how to do all those things.

 

Aside from the Malfoys, there were few other families that had more than twenty seats— although there was one person who had no family, no marriage, and twenty-nine seats under his control— Albus Dumbledore. He had been given quite a few seats after the war, for valour, but the headmaster also held a few seats in trust— four, to be exact, and all Harry’s. He couldn’t find any records of the Wizengamot votes— Harry thought they probably didn’t publish them— but according to Malfoy, Dumbledore had voted for all the pro-muggle ‘reforms’ since the war had ended.

 

Harry didn’t get angry very often, but that afternoon he sat in the library and stewed away, as angry as he could possibly be. Life had never been very fair to Harry, but this, he thought, this was too much. Dumbledore was supposed to protect them all— it was his job— and he’d failed Harry his whole life. Why had he never checked on him? Why had he let Harry live like a slave, locked up and forgotten about? You know why, said a very bitter voice in Harry’s head, which sounded more like Malfoy than him. He loves muggles more than his own kind.

 

Harry wondered if he could possibly get someone else to be his magical guardian— if that was something he could do, or if the headmaster would know and be able to stop him. So, of course, Harry had to look that up as well.

 

He didn’t find any answers in the books in the library. Harry would have to find out some other way— Malfoy, maybe, or maybe he could buy books from Flourish and Blotts through the mail. But he did manage to spend quite a few hours in the library, and he was nearly late to their Herbology lesson that afternoon.

 

“Where have you been,” said Malfoy, when Harry turned up, slightly out of breath and clutching his bookbag, “as if I have to ask.”

 

Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “I lost track of time.”

 

Malfoy ‘humphed,’ and muttered something about living in the library before they went into the greenhouse.

 

—

 

Before he knew it, it was the end of October, and Harry had to set aside his hunt for law books (which mostly made his head hurt, even the 'simple' ones,) to re-read his genealogy books— he had to have as many generations of his family memorized as he possibly could, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself on Samhain.

 

Malfoy had to break the news to him, a week before-hand, that they didn't actually celebrate real wizarding holidays at Hogwarts. Instead, they held feasts for the muggle holidays. It wasn't like they couldn't celebrate them, but to Harry, it was just one more thing muggleborns had taken away from him. Malfoy had told him all of Slytherin would be in the dorms that night, doing the Samhain rituals, so Harry would just have to make do with that. Harry had mostly gotten over his disappointment— until he realized that he couldn't remember anyone's name past his great-great-grandparents— they were supposed to be able to remember at least eight generations, and Harry would only have the one side of his family. He was worried about Nott or Zabini looking down their noses at him, or forgetting the name of a some-odd great-aunt from the fifteen-hundreds. Being able to 'remember your pedigree,' was, as Malfoy kept reminding him, the mark of a great wizard.

 

So, Harry did what he did best, and he studied.

 


End file.
